Bearclaw Valley Ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves

more than confidence, val lacked the piece of the puzzle that all other wolves had. their edges, smoothed and rounded, fit perfectly in place among one another. val’s edges were nonsensical and frayed, unwilling to fall in groove.

he’d seen for himself aventus and merrick; true fighters, who bore the cost of their conquests in scars raised like proud flags across flayed skin. he is a good fighter. val remarked of aventus, a brow lifted. arielle was right, though — there was no use wallowing. you’re right. next time i’ll do better.