I Wanted to be the Best

Sergei did not feel particularly close to his father. Kershov loomed like a white vulture on the edges of his awareness, black eyes a hard pressure on the back of his neck while the pup trained with his sister. He could probably count on all his front toes the number of times the aloof Alpha had directly addressed him. Some of those moments had been in emotionless praise: objective appraisals of Sergei’s skills, pointing out what he did right, when his ideas were creative and effective, how well he’d developed his fighting form. Hungry for approval, the young boy soaked up this positive reinforcement like a flower soaks up the sun. He felt his confidence bloom when that unfeeling dragon deigned to congratulate him in a strong tackle, or a difficult combination. Other times, the Ice King had uttered only a few syllables of criticism: too much tension in one group of muscles, the lack of attention to detail, something else Sergei hadn’t even considered - and then, of course, the pale prince winced in shame. It took some time to school his hurt features into a stoic mask like the one Athene wore. Eventually, Sergei started to build his armour, dense plates to protect his ego when he failed at something. Neither Kershov nor Athene ever berated him endlessly when Sergei made a mistake, even silly ones. Perhaps it was the coldness, the professional air with which they presented their advice that made their son work all the harder to improve himself. He and his sister Gwyneira were more mature than the other pups in Uyaraut; they were stronger, fiercer, more adept at hunting. While the children around him explored and played, Sergei ran laps with Athene and Gwyn around the border. His bruises, his cuts, his scrapes, were all earned for a reason. Kershov was not much of a father to him, but like Athene, he was a coach - and Sergei could imagine his life no other way.

But when the colossal dragga he respected so much turned his own furious fangs onto his limb, in front of an audience, Sergei’s heart squeezed in pain. Confusion blindsided him. Who was this man, who demanded his pack to bleed him? Where was this anger coming from? The Kershov that Sergei knew was a sculpture of ice . . . too cool to touch, unfailingly level. Even when Gwyneira had gone missing, and the Emperor asked Sergei where his sister was, Kershov had seemed like a tightly controlled weapon. Black-and-yellow eyes glanced up at his mother, taking in her reaction. When he saw that Athene was similarly unnerved - irritated, even - Sergei let out a breath. His whole life had been meticulously planned, patterns and designs laid bare for him to follow. The greatest relief during Kershov’s hearing was the moment his mother stepped forward and announced the start of the Trials. At last, a moment of clarity in a storm where nothing made sense!

The pups knew the area Athene named. The place that would act as the arena for their match. Sergei’s still-too-big paws beat a firm, quick rhythm on the terra as he marched from Uyaraut’s border and into the freelands. From time to time, his bright gaze flashed sideways at his sister, gauging her emotions. “Are you ready, Gwyn?” A wide smile that might have been playful under any other circumstance. That familiar press of Kershov’s stare on his back returned, pushing Sergei onward. He allowed the quivering thrill of adrenalin to pump through his blood, to soak into his muscles. All those long, arduous days and nights of training . . . the blood he’d spilled . . . the tears he’d shed . . . the wounds he licked by himself, preparing hurt himself all over again the next morning. They all led to this very moment. With the sun lowering toward the horizon and shadows lengthening from the trees, Sergei gave an aggressive snarl and plunged into the shadows - thinking of a hundred ways to kill his sister.

Cruel Fate, Cruel Life!

Son of Kershov x Athene | No Love | Uyaraut | xathira