A lesson was being learned. Firstly, it wasn’t a good idea to wander away from her pack and into the land of another. It would be something she would never forget in all her years. Secondly, the wolves of Glorall were insane! They were monsters who wanted nothing more than to see a child wilt before their burning stares and cower under their gnashing teeth. Wren was terrified, but the blood in her veins boiled with a proud heritage that refused to be silenced. Even as she lowered herself, submitting to their will, she continued to bare her own teeth and snap defiantly at their words. When Blackthorne charged forward, trying to shove her down, she growled a puppy snarl and returned his own bite. His teeth landed home on her cheek, bruising but not breaking the dark skin. She wasn’t sure if she made contact with him, but her sharp yelp of shock and pain echoed loudly. Still, no one came to her rescue. Wren was completely on her own and at the mercy of these vile wolves.

Being called ugly seemed to anger her more than she could have imagined. Her mother often told her how pretty she was, happy that her dark fur resembled her own, unlike the lighter browns of Finch and Sparrow. A final lunge at Eve seemed to sap all the courage she felt. The attack was weak and would easily be dodged. But it had given her a chance to distract the older wolf while Wren did exactly what the Glorall wolves wanted. She gave them a chase. Tiny legs and awkwardly large paws carried her across the moist land of the ocean pack as she tried desperately to find the log bridge she used to first come to this horrible place. The puppy didn’t dare turn to see if she was being followed. If she saw them on her heels, she knew she wouldn’t be able to out run them. Better to let adrenaline control her legs to fly her back home.

Painting wildly, it seemed to take ages to finally find the log that would send her home. Bounding for it, she slipped briefly, allowing anyone chasing her to get a final snap in before darting across into Diveen. Even within the safety of her own home, she didn’t stop. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, her tongue hung loosely from her open mouth, her lungs burned savagely, and yet she did not stop. Not until her den came into view. Only then did she slow long enough to zip into the hole and the welcome darkness of her home. There, she panted heavily and quietly sobbed to herself as the pain in her cheek flared. Never again would Wren travel alone into the bowels of hell. Let the demons rule their stinky pit. She would stay as the princess of the Angels. But, for many weeks after her encounter, she would have nightmares of Eve and Blackthorne, taunting and torturing her. It would be a silent suffering she would tell no one.