Moonspear [Trespassing] Faded to grey

Oblivious to the poor boy's panic, Lyra sought to put an end to his wailing cries and to stop his onslaught against her pack mate. She could not see (and truthfully would not even acknowledge) that he didn't aim to harm Merrit, only to deter him, and in turn Merrit held steadfast and still against the flurry of kicks and bites. Her contempt for him only grew. Trespassers were to be killed. Too often lately had they made exceptions to the rule, too often loners had come and taken advantage of their stores and stocks, before disappearing just as quickly. A line had be drawn somewhere. They were on the tail end of a famine and soon spring — and the next generation of Ostregas — would be here. They needed those who would defend the mountain at all costs. The soft, bleeding hearts had no place within their claim.

As she made to crash into Merrit's side to force him off the stranger, he suddenly crouched low, forming a protective barrier over the younger boy against Lyra's searching fangs. She spun on her heel, nearly toppling over from the unexpected move, but struck out with her jaws in an attempt to latch onto the scruff of Merrit's dark neck and stabilise herself.

She would have sought to tear him from his defensive position above the other boy were it not for the name he screamingly plead. In an instant, the snarl in her throat died, her hackles relaxed, but the venomous gleam in her gaze did not lighten. Valette. It was a name Alya repeated often. The Matriarch of Easthollow. She supposed she owed it to the eastern pack for taking in her fellow triplet, and for the love she found there, but she also believed them to have turned her sister soft. Too sweet, too forgiving. It seemed all the wolves from there were the same. Tail stiff above her hindquarters, Lyra backed off a step or two, allowing the two boys room while giving a single, harsh command. "Get up."