Duck Lake little dark age

Tension corded around them like garrote wire. Skífa felt the knot in his throat, the scorching in his lungs of a withheld breath.

The duck was there. Right there. Skífa almost lunged. But the stranger pounced first. The shallows leaped around him. The duck flailed, windpipe pinched, making shrill gargled cries and furious flapping sounds. Then the death rattle. Then silence.

Skífa darted toward the sullen shoreline, mounting a face-off with the hunter. Attempting to stop them from exiting the shallows. He could see the other young wolf's dismal state the closer he came. Half-starved, like him, and probably cold. He didn't feel sorry for him, he told himself. To prove it, Skífa bared his teeth in what was a half-smile and half-threat. His ears towered on the plane of his skull, and his hackles made a ridge down his back. "Hand over," he growled, and his breath coalesced in little wet clouds around his muzzle. "You catch another one, eh? Not too hard for you, I think."