Stavanger Bay with the salt on our skin

Szymon’s thirst had been great, whetted and whipped by the crust of salt and the lash of brine, and he had forgotten his Chosen One’s precautions prior to the ceremony. On an empty stomach, he had drunk deeply of the fermented plum concoction, and its sticky-sweet flavor and heady punch sent him violently reeling. He snapped at invisible foes, his tongue ticking and rolling uselessly in his jaws as he edged nearer to the Sea and crashed to his elbows in the lapping surf. “Ksenia? Ksenia, you — you! — die,” he hissed, the stutter having dissipated beneath the overwhelming influence of alcohol. Heavy jaws clapped together so hard it made him dizzier still, and his ginger-tipped tail lashed like an angry cat’s as he slewed to the side, regaining his footing in the front as his hindquarters splayed like an ungainly fawn’s. “Stay the fuck away from me,” he snarled throatily, his bass timbre guttural and desperate as he ripped into an enemy no wolf but he could see. Disjointed pleas and threats spilled from his lips with equal fervor.

“ — the fuck off me — Jaglon — ”

“ — but I didn’t — I didn’t!”

He whipped to the side, dropping to his shoulder and partially rolling to his back as he snapped upward and appeared pushed down by some greater, heavier force; his muzzle tucked against his throat as his forelegs came up to ward off a flurry of blows; powerful hindquarters that seemed too lean to do much damage kicked with virulent force as he shoved off his “attacker” and scurried furiously away. Panting raggedly, he spat blood — he’d bitten his tongue in the struggle — and fixed his dilated golden eyes on empty air. His wild, spiny-looking fur jutted in every direction, glittering with salt as his hackles rose and he dipped his muzzle with a deep and threatening growl. Gone was the whining boy — he’d put on muscle and fat since arriving in these wilds — but his body trembled still. Muscle memory. His body remembered what his mind had tried so hard to lock away and forget — he was the whipping boy, the scapegoat, the Jonah. He was going to be smothered beneath the writhing salt-dusted bodies, made to watch as Jaglon and Jagoda had their way with the tiny, precious, wondrously confusing witch doctor. This time — this time — they would kill him — his chin tilted at an impossible angle as his neck began to tense, rearing back like a serpent’s so the seizure could take him fully —

“NO!”

Panting, slavering, his chest patterned with strings of saliva and blood, Szymon lunged toward the surf with renewed vigor. His jaws gaped widely enough to rival the crocodiles Doe had spoken of; a wordless, enraged roar streamed from his mouth. “I’m not your bitch anymore,” he whispered, though the words slammed through his skull like a warcry. “I’ll tear you apart — I am the war machine — I am a Cairn.” Throwing back his head, Szymon uttered a fierce, rolling howl that drowned out the snarls of his brothers and lunged forward, snapping his jaws — he careened wildly to the side, his jaws locked together as if around the scruff of some foe — and then he fell heavily to the sand and moved no more.