Stay in the den.

The warning had been told repeatedly to him until Blackthorne simply looked up one morning at his mother and answers, "No." Even Sarabi's growl could not subdue Blackthorne, try as she might; he would growl back, that puppy growl that threatened for something deeper. One day, years from this very moment. He would face death head on if that was what leaving the den meant for after being told so many times, he refused to stay put.

Back paws half covered in silver propel him up the slight ramp so that his silvery charcoal eyes stare out. In the shadow of the den they look empty and dark - a pit. Does a soul lurk there? The moment he sets one front obsidian paw out of the den and draws his face out, however, they seem to flash and glare silver. The world is large around him but he is fearless, head raised and ears facing back. Even his lips twitch a few times, delicate milk teeth poking out as he takes in all the movements and sounds outside of the den.

Birds flit from tree to tree, chirping and chattering, oblivious and uncaring to the dark child below. Before he knows it Thorne is all the way to the tree a few dozen paces away from the den, his nose pressing against the dirt in concentration. He cannot discern many scents yet, still being so young, but the stronger ones still burn through him. He doesn't know who they belong to but he doesn't know any wolves besides his mother and sister, even though there was some imminent threat that lingered over them at all times.

A noise, a shuffle, draws his attention, head snapping around and a growl immediately being let loose. His hair ruffles up, the splash of silver on his head always seeming to spike from the permanent cowlick, now backed by the darkness from the rest of him. "Come out!" Defiant, demanding, bold. Blackthorne could never be anything less.