In the wildlands, he lurked. Red eyes scanned through the crisp air, always on alert for this or that. News was something he valued, information was a treasure the young boy was slowly learning how to cultivate. Whereas Blackthorne was starting to learn to love ‘secrets’, Zharko was beginning to learn the powers of interpretation and critical thinking. There were facts in the world he could not deny. Speculation could be a curse, but interpretation could be a power. The way someone could take a fact and manipulate it to their purpose was a skill he was still trying to learn. It was a skill he was learning through watching, and living. It seemed as though his existence, fairly unhindered, in the freelands was playing out to his increasing advantage. Despite how the cards of fate seemed stacked against him.

Zharko had stopped growing. He had come into his ‘own’ far faster than his year-mate. He remained small, tiny even compared to others such as Blackthorne. His size did not seem to hinder him much. Speed and stealth had become his stronger suits. Coupled with sudden spurts of viciousness, brute force was not something he need, or could, bank on. Instead he worked on refining what he had.

The commanding call broke through the air. Zharko stopped his wonderings and made his way to his Master. It was easy to find Blackthorne; the other wolf had very little need to hide. Zharko, however, let his pale body blend with the deep snow as he moved. Red eyes glistened as he looked upon the wolf who had torn apart his face and marked him as his own. He sat quietly beside the other wolf. His gaze on Thorne was watchful and calculating. These meeting usually ended in instruction, or in a brutal test of abilities. Yes? He asked smoothly, his voice holding as much respect as was deserved.