Bramblepoint Withering

The boy left the Caldera while the others rested, not wanting to disturb their grief, or to draw attention or concern. He moved off into the thickets of Bramblepoint, knowing he was close enough that his scent would mark him as safe- but that he might be out of earshot as well. He doubted any of his packmates would follow him- still they wept at Bronco's grave, and tread around, quiet and somber. 

But quiet and somber didn't work for him. 

Inside him, a deluge of flames writhed. He paced and lashed out at branches as he passed by them, his ears flattened tightly against his skull. With each hissing breath he exhaled a plume of misty breath, hot with anger. Around and around he went, and each time the peak in the distance came into his line of sight, he roared at it. As he turned to pace away, his voice fell into a sob, and in agony, he wept until the tears became hot with anger again. 

He hated them. He hated every single wolf who had needed his father to fight because now, they lived- and now, his father was dead.