Silvertip Mountain daybreak

Though unmindful of Fjall’s emotions, Arktos did relinquish a scrap of information that had been withheld before: he was thinking of forging his own pack.

It seemed a fitting role for such an imposing brute. And he was as serious and no-nonsense as they came – Fjall didn’t think he’d ever met a man so hardnosed. He couldn’t even imagine this man smiling! But most troubling of all was that none of it explained why his heartwings flapped a little harder when the man asked if he had a home.

I did— I do, he huffed against the wind. I mean, I used to live there. He gestured towards the glacier. I want to return, but… my family has gone from it. There’s only strangers there now. It begged to question why he would go back at all, but Fjall thought it was his responsibility to do so. (Never mind the fact that he was severely stalling his return.)

Fjall would’ve opened up more about it, but he was unconsciously emulating the tight-lipped mien of his company. Half of his mouth curved wryly when Arktos stated his beliefs, rooted only in the corporeal way of things. But what if one could sense spirits in that way – touch them, taste them, feel them? Surely, they would be worth believing in then.

I am, Fjall answered, unashamed. I can sense them as well as I can sense prey, or you. It might not make sense to a wolf like Arktos, but he didn’t expect everyone to have had their awakening through the Maker – the Fearsome One – the Wild Spirit. Perhaps it’s a rare sense. Like when some never gain vision or their ears. Maybe some are born with a different kind of sight, too.