He was a small, misty shadow. Often forgotten by those around him, yet still ever present. There had been a reason Thorne had chosen him for his Commander, and much of it was due to his nature to be unseen. This was a freedom Zharko took advantage of whenever he could. He had never grown up in the moors. Their misty coverings, though perfect for him, did not bring him the taste of home it did for others. It was the wild heart of the loner lands that tugged at his being. The freedom to be whoever he desire to be, just at the tip of his paws as he looked just beyond the borders of Iromar. Unseeing, his red eyes shadowed in thought. Zharko did not know who he was now. As a pup he had been payment. Growing up he had been another’s shadow, as well as a forgotten figment until Thorne had found him. That fight had changed his life. Suddenly he was a secret spy, learning everything he could about everywhere he could until Thorne had become Alpha of Iromar. Now Zharko was something else entirely. There was something deep within him he longed to be....

Every time he closed his eyes, and even when they were open, he saw their faces. Zafira and Wren… both torn away from him by fate and cruelty. Stone still, he could feel his heart crush within his body. He had failed them both and had become nothing. A wisp of mist on the moors. Not worthy even of a soul to bind himself to. Perhaps this was all he could ever amount to. The henchman of a cruel leader. The hand and knife that no one saw coming. Zafira and Wren would be ashamed. Zharko was ashamed.

His red eyes burned through the cold dusk, looking up at the sound of a splash at the border. The runt bared his teeth and slipped through the reeds. Everything about this world stank of Thorne, overwhelming the senses, but masking the Commander. He watched as a familiar wolf approached, stopped, and turned around. Zharko knew him to be the Boneripper. He was a trusted, welcome member of the pack. Yet the pale male turned away. Curious, Zharko padded forward and stalked the other male.

A strange relief flooded over him the moment he left the confines of the packland. It was strange, how controlling and oppressive Thorne’s mere influence was. Quietly, he followed, feeling more and more at home as the two started to venture deeper into the grotto, his old home. Zharko followed the drops of water and the faded scent until he found the other wolf’s head poking out of a shelter. Once more his red eyes narrowed and he studied his brother. It was astounding, the subtle differences and similarities of the two blood brothers. It was a shame the two had never formally spoken. Good evening… Zephyr. Addressing him as ‘brother’ felt far too familial. His good ear twitched in the direction of Iromar. They were both here, outside of the grasp of Thorne. It could have been they were both here for a reason. Zharko took a deep breath slowly through his nose. There was a chance, here and now the two truly could be brothers. Iromar not to your liking tonight?