Duck Lake renəˌsäns

Since Swift could walk and in some ways even before that, he had shown himself to have an intrepid independence that was eager to explore his world and hunt all the living creatures that roamed it. He spent most of his time off on his own, but Katla had been his companion when he wanted her to be. She had been the subject of his impish torments, his prey when he practiced his stalking and pouncing, and she had been someone to tug sticks and race around with. She had always been there when he returned to his family.

He missed her.

In the wake of the pack meeting, Swiftlet's feelings of loss and loneliness only worsened. He kept away from everyone and sulked, and scarcely even ate. Though his parents were leaders, he had felt entirely apart from the pack that day — an outsider looking in on a world he did not belong to; a world that belonged to the pups of Kvarsheim's former monarchs, built on a legacy he did not care about by wolves he didn't know.

Most if not all the blame fell on his shoulders even if he didn't realize it. Swift had made no effort to connect with his packmates, he had invested neither in their culture nor history, and despite his early hunting prowess he had contributed nothing to the community. Nonetheless, it had wounded him deeply to feel so inconsequential and alone while standing amongst them, and he was greener than his eyes with envy of Kristjan and his littermates.

Kristjan. The boy had made Swift feel noticed and welcome and on several occasions Swift thought to seek his companionship. But he never did. Gradually, he resumed his solo excursions beyond the territory, returning more and more infrequently and for shorter periods of time. With his parents distracted by their search elsewhere, there was little connecting him to the circle of stones and those who remained within it.

There then came a day when he did not return at all.

The spring thaw was beginning, bringing beautifully clear skies and a sun that was feeling warmer and warmer on his back. Swift shook off his sullenness with the help of new hunting opportunities and new games to play. Fragile ice at the shore of a lake made for one of the latter. He had discovered it produced wonderful cracking noises underfoot. So, he had taken to stomping it with his forepaws, smashing what he could and laughing every time he was greeted by icy water splashing in his face.

On the opposite shoreline, a small herd of elk who had come to drink curiously watched the young wolf's raucous gamboling.