Namurr’s dreams were filled with ice.

Where the nightmares of others might be terrifying places crawling with stygian darkness and slavering monsters, the tiger prince suffered in a pristine landscape of blindingly bright snow and ice as blue as the cloudless sky. The beauty of this territory in his memories speared into his chest—a deadly icicle—chilling his blood and piercing his heart. My home . . . the thought made him ache. Under his large paws, the frosted ground had been polished to mirror smoothness, reflecting his distraught features. In the distance, that heartbreaking horizon—pure and azure, its brilliance prickling tears into his vision—crackled at the edges with the shattered crowns of glaciers. His breath fogged before his muzzle. He shivered, frozen to the spot, a helpless statue doomed to watch this scene over and over and over until his own screams finally woke him up.

There stood his family, a close-knit pack for whom family was the most sacred thing in the world. They worshipped no gods, feared no spirits; the love they shared existed on a pedestal that shone like a torch to always guide them home. Namurr saw his father, handsome and strong, his emerald eyes glowing with adoration for his faction; next to the proud dragga was his mother, gentle and soft, calling out silently to her son across the distance with a happily wagging tail; just behind them, pushing against each other as if they’d start tumbling in play any minute, were Namurr’s little sisters. They looked nothing alike—to be expected, since they all had different mothers—yet they were connected on a soul level, undyingly loyal to one another. Namurr would destroy worlds to protect them. All of them. He’d sacrifice himself a hundred times to ensure that he lived, because his death meant nothing as long as it preserved the laughter of his siblings and the safety of his mother and the continued reign of his benevolent father—

A devastating CRACK shattered the peaceful stillness of the blonde boy’s dreamscape. He felt his jaws stretching wide to expel a shout that never came, his voice strangled into stillness, his limbs rooted firmly to the spot as his entire world fell apart again.

Hairline fissures threaded through the glass beneath his feet. They widened into fractures, crevasses, the icy floor crumbling away. Sheets of ice flipped up from their spots, a jagged tableau, and Namurr could only weep as he watched his pack get tossed and thrown by the very land they trusted. Soon Murr’s own stance heaved violently to the left—he felt himself sail through the air like a rag doll, boneless, powerless, and the precise moment when he slammed back to earth he jerked awake with a shuddering gasp, eyes wide open and body shivering as if trapped in the embrace of a blizzard.

I’m not there . . . I’m not there . . . He swallowed hard, slowly lowering his cranium to his paws and closing his verdant lanterns in an effort to gather his racing thoughts. Several deep breaths later—inhalations that felt like swallowing glass and exhalations that almost made him collapse—the brindled brute finally felt as if he could face the day. Despite the frigid conditions of his nightmare, the early morning promised balmy warmth and cheerful sunlight; already the distant sky blushed a sweet pink as dawn rays chased the clouds. Murr forced himself upright, dipping into a stretch that popped his vertebrae, and resolutely shuffled away from his impromptu sleeping place. He still had miles of ground to cover before he’d allow himself to rest again. A low sigh dragged from between his tight lips and he moved into a ground-devouring run, anxious to meet his goal. The pack he’d heard of most closely resembled the place he’d had to leave; on the one hand, Namurr welcomed the nostalgia of a familiar environment, yet he still worried that perhaps this was the wrong decision. What if the area he most excelled in tortured him the most? Would it be enough not to smell the scent of his family around every corner? Could memorizing the outline of a different territory overwrite the tragedy plaguing his thoughts?

The hours passed. Rose and citrus orange and cornflower blue transformed into clear day and fluffy white clouds, brilliant sunlight warming Namurr’s unique pelt. Trees faded into the distance, stepping aside for rolling rocky hills and grass that blew in the wind like waves . . . and then he smelled it. A border, right where he expected it to be. Graes Waegholm. Murr puffed his chest out, willing away his fear from this morning, and tossed back his skull to sing a song of welcome to the Alpha—requesting an audience so that he might join this faction.

Join the faction . . . and forget the hurt that burrowed within him like a parasite eating his life away.