This place called to him in ways he would have rather not contemplated. Around that corner he had lost his sister. Around the other he had murdered another. The all consuming rage had blinded him, washed the world in red, and so he had painted it to match. This had happened when he had been but a pup, at a time he could have claimed to be innocent and naive. With Blackthorne’s new rise to power, with him at his side, Zharko knew his paws would once more be washed with blood. Now he would not be able to claim innocence. He would not be able to say he did not know what he was doing. Just like the scars that marked his face, the demons within him would be visible to the world and they would know him for what he was.

In the shadows the small pale wolf sniffled at a dip in the floor. Creatures had curled there to take shelter before moving on with their lives. Much like he was taking this time for himself, to revisit and relive what had once been. Red eyes looked around the darkened halls, seeing clearly what had happened years before. Zafira had been so close, and had slipped through his paws. Twice more, he had found her, and she had been ripped away from him. His stomach curled at the thought of where she might be and what might have happened to her. With every passing moment he knew he needed to find her again. With the shift of the world it was even more important that she would be safe. At least one of them could avoid the curse that was bleeding Aranck’s blood. As he walked he pondered this. All of the remaining children of his father bore the mark of the traitor. One way or another they continued to carry his mantle. Leaning against the stone, he thought about how the cloak rested on his shoulders. He was Blackthorne’s most trusted, highest praised, most loyal. Zharko was the right hand paw of the Darkbringer. The corners of Zharko’s lips twitched. He was not so stupid to believe there even was such a thing.

Thoughts still swirling in his mind, the small boy turned to leave the Grottos, their shadowed memories pressing firmly against his eyes. Not even the sun could burn away the image of his sister’s skull, carried away by Dexter’s jaws. Just outside the mouth of one of the caves, Zharko hesitated. A scent similar to his lord and master’s graced the ground. Eyes narrowed, he sniffed and padded toward the new entrance. Considering who this trail smelled like, he was ready for any attack. When his eyes rested on the female he did not visibly relax. No change at all seemed to come over his scarred and tattered face.

You, are not Blackthorne. He pointed out bluntly. After his words, he stared her down, taking in every aspect of her. He was not scared of her, he was confident in his skills to survive. But still, he stood non-threatening and neutral. Why create a fight if he did not have to.