The very thing that I love's killing me and I can't conquer it

Caution told her to remain where she was, and she even took a step back when the other wolf jolted. Once, the female might have been an impressive creature, with a thick Arctic coat flecked in black upon her spine, and a bearing that suggested she had been tall, maybe even proud. Now, the body was hunched over itself, and the beast kept its head low, its smouldering eyes stuck somewhere between reality and fantasy. Never before had the Endore seen such a thing.

The dying female croaked out a claim of some sort, confirming Ptarmigan's suspicions. Once, this matted and maddened creature had owned something. Maybe she had owned this whole forest. Maybe the howling of the wolves had not been for a hunt or something, but to decide what to do about this sick creature in their midst. All at once assumptions—correct ones, as rare as it was for Ptarmigan to be right about something—flooded her mind.

Her eyes never left Jinx, and she skittered further back when the other lunged forward and collapsed. “It's not yours anymore,” she concluded for the other. Twisting her ears around and lifting her head, the dark-furred woman wondered, “then who's?”

When this female died... Would it pass to an heir? Or would the rank be open for the pack to squabble over? Once, her mother had told her that she would have to leave the pack, for a child's ambition could quickly overtake a parent's law. Quail had been afraid that her offspring would kill her for her position, which was why Ptarmigan had been sent away with her father snapping at her tail... Was this the same situation now, where whoever put this monstrously ill bitch out of her misery would become the queen?

There was a glimmer of opportunity in the other's hazed eyes, and Ptarmigan knew without question she would, as her forebears often had before her, seize it.