Bearclaw Valley ghost of a monster child

Before him: Merrick, whose teeth cut through the fur and flesh and sinew of the trespasser's throat and released a crimson spray from the severed jugular. It came first like a fine mist, settling on his flaring nostrils, and then with a gush the stranger died and Aventus felt the warm splash of blood across his chest.

Behind him: the pack, experiencing horror and ecstasy alike.

Ico's departure was unmarked. Skoll's, too. Aventus had eyes only for the slain wolf. His moral compass was newly minted, and if ever it would've pointed him true, now its misbegotten needle guided him only down a dark road. The trespasser was only meat and blood and vessels and bones—no more than prey. No more than the occasional chunks of meat brought to them to complete the process of weaning them away from mother's milk.

As befits prey, Aventus sank his small teeth into still-warm flesh and began fighting to wrestle a small morsel free from the dead wolf's armpit. Eating one's own kind was a taboo that was taught, and he'd missed the memo.