Swiftcurrent Creek that gun is loaded, but it's not in my hand

The journey to the valley was arduous at best—the sand and desert gave way to grass, which initiated a feeling of home within his chest, but it was a bittersweet and stolen moment only, for grief reminded him that not just home was missing his daughter, but the world as they all knew it.

He bathed in a spring nearby—washing the remnants of the past weeks from his pelt—and when he came to their borders he only gave a moments pause—jaw tightening—and then walked over them. A short howl broke out from his muzzle—he was home.

The Alpha had returned—and while exhaustion and sorrow clung to him like a heavy weight, he turned his path to the borders—beginning to mark his presence among them once more.

Routine allowed the mind to forget.

At least, that’s what he told himself.