Moonstone Quarry The wolf that always seeks his own kind

the sting of the altar’s offering a distant thing compared to the heavy weight he bore with such quiet grace. the blood that wept from his roughened palm was no accident, no shame — it was gift, sacrifice, oath.

he bowed his head slightly at kukutux’s words, the thick ruff of his neck trembling once with the force of breath withheld and then released.

he did not speak, for there were no words fit for this moment. instead, he pressed his wounded hand again to the altar’s worn face, letting the crimson bead anew and mingle with the sacred tokens laid there. it was a silent vow: to the nuiruk, to sedna, to the children who would know his name only by the strength of his steps and the breadth of his protection.

callyope had chosen well, kukutux said — and he would spend the breadth of his days proving her right. he would carve her faith into the marrow of mountains if he must.