Moonspear a marked deck

As a child, Alya had not known pity. It was something she had taken painstaking care to learn. Something she had first mimmicked in others, but that had eventually come to life in the pit of her stomach, in the dark and secret atria hidden away in her chest. It was a feeling she hid from her sisters, and feeling she felt now as she watched the boy. Pity and something else. Hunger. Hatred. Revulsion. She did not know the name of this feeling. She labeled it bloodlust in her mind, but in her heart, knew it was something a little more like shame.

The omega was a boy — only just past being labeled a yearling, and not quite old or venerable enough to be considered an adult by Alya, who felt understandably but prematurely aged by the sudden deaths of her parents. He looked thin and not quite alert, but seemed to be working dilligently, to some end. She wondered, dully, where he had come from, and whether she would not soon be eating him, or feeding him to hungry young mouths.

The shewolf stalked a while longer, controlling the urge to bounce forth and attack — would it be cruelty or mercy?

Instead, she stepped purposefully on a large stick, emerging from the brush so that her eyeshine glinted from the shadows of her dark face.