Heron Lake Plateau Glam, glitz, guts and gore.

Even though he had expected the worst, nothing could brace him for the news. Orca and Titmouse were dead. Gone. Not only that, but Titmouse had done unspeakable things. Phox sat there, stunned. He had expected that they had died at the hands of the Blackfeather wolves. It was here—right now—that he learned his own disappearance had not kept them from dying (something a piece of shit coward might assume). In fact, it seemed to have made it worse. Instead of processing one death, then another, he had to ingest two at the same time. It was hard to breathe, and not just because of the cold and fever.

He was speechless, and he wondered if that was what Towhee had wanted. Maybe she wanted him to stop asking questions. Now he felt as though she had offered that up as punishment, as torture for his betrayal to her, to the Redhawks, to the pack. With Orca and Titmouse dead and gone, that left Towhee as his only remaining littermate. He knew it technically went both ways, but somehow he was not sure if he would qualify as a sibling at this point. If he was one, he was a piss poor one.

Elwood and Finley? he asked. They were the leaders when he had left, and now Raven had taken the reigns. At some point in the interim, Towhee had, too. He waited to ask that question, ragged breath filling the silence (at least for him) as he awaited her answer.