Herbalists' Cache lull of war

the world is warmth. it is the steady, rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat beneath him, the scent of milk, the soft press of bodies against his own. he knows nothing beyond it.
nothing beyond the shifting shapes of his siblings, the tiny wars waged in the dark, toothless jaws seeking, shoving, grasping.
he drinks, he sleeps, he breathes in the scent of his mother, and when she is gone, the world is cold. his cries are small, instinctive, pulling her back, restoring the warmth.
he does not know the hush of waiting warriors. he does not know the taste of blood in the snow. he does not know how fragile this peace is, how soon it may splinter.