Lion Head Mesa The world burns by

The dark wolf walked to the furthest reaches of the mesa, his head held low. The light in his eyes had faded. The conversation he had shared with Germanicus played repeatedly, filling him with new aches each time he replayed it. Crowfeather had never felt so much like a child. The older man had likely only said such things as a way of showing that he cared, but instead it sounded like he was planning to go off and fight – to die – and that he did not wish to have anything holding him back.

Crowfeather looked to the darkened sky and sighed quietly. The sun would rise on him soon, if it could break through the dismal layer of clouds that had filled the air. Winter breathed sighs of promise, carried on the backs of each gentle breeze that moved over the mesa. In the early hours, that wind was harsh with frigidity.

The shadow moved to the border where he began to carve a quiet path around the edge of Akashingo’s kingdom. In the distance, the dark wolf let his eyes rest on the mountain where the Saints supposedly resided. What would Germanicus do if Crowfeather went there alone? Nothing, thought the boy with a sour expression. He would do nothing.