I Wanted to be the Best

One of the many lessons Sergei had picked up on during his training was that not all wolves were created equal. Not all warriors were created equal. He found a beautiful logic in the pack dynamics Athene had told him about - a pack divided into factions of experts, masters of their craft, that ensured the strength of their territory through the strength of their skills. This world represented the most excellent form of equality, which could be achieved no other way; when a pack allowed weaklings and parasites to feed off its greatness, the kingdom could only ever be as powerful as the least worthy creature in its gates. Although the winter prince had not yet experienced the horrors of war or death, he still felt mostly at peace with the future his mother laid out for him. When he and Gwyneira were of age, they would fight until the other was killed. Only one pup would continue to live on in Uyaraut, to further their training and come into their own as a magnificent gladiator. Sergei ran himself until he bled to come out on top. But at night, as his eyelids dropped closed and he breathed past the bruises pounded into his chest, he thought it might be okay if he . . . lost. If it were Gwyn that defeated him, if it were her that added her muscles to Uyaraut in his place. Because if Sergei died, then that meant he was supposed to die - and Sergei would rather be dead than a shackle that weighed down the glory of his home.

The boy could not know it, but that sort of thinking was the first chink in his armor. The first fatal crack in what needed to be iron-hard. Even from the beginning, as he snuggled next to his sister after a hard day and dreamed about a possibility where she’d lay in the den alone, Sergei was doomed. He didn’t want to murder hard enough. And if he did not want to kill his sister like he wanted to eat, like he wanted to breathe, then the universe had already decided the outcome of their Trial.

Of course, the brindle-painted lad was thinking of none of this as he dived into the forest that had suddenly become their warzone. He and Gwyn were well-matched - but still different in their fighting styles, a truth Sergei realized early on and had prepared for. His sister was smaller than him, more easily concealed in their arena. Stealth was on her side. Rather than waste valuable time attempting to muddle his scent or disappear into the woods, Sergei focused on finding a high ground to nullify the sneaking advantage Gwyn would no doubt seize. He wanted something with little underbrush . . . the dry leaves littering the cold forest floor would give him plenty of clues to Gwyneira’s location, and she could actually use thick bushes to confuse her brother. Both pups knew how to contort themselves in bracken - how to flick a branch with their extended tail to trick prey into thinking their predatory bulk lurked in another location. No . . . Sergei wanted openness. He wanted a hill Gwyn would either need to charge up, or tire herself hiking from around the side. Mismatched eyes of citrine and obsidian sliced from side to side as the boy traveled, keeping his tough frame low to the ground, ears perked and straining to catch even the faintest stir of a twig. He knew that his sibling would already be tracking his obvious scent trail; he just needed to keep moving, needed to weave a path that would force her in useless circles or tread on unprotected soil. This parcel of land had been battered by large boulders breaking up the treeline like the eggs of prehistoric beasts - no doubt flung here or pulled up from the earth when Blossom underwent its massive change. Sergei paid special attention to these enormous stones; strings of them close together would form a perfect bridge for Gwyn to climb on without leaving her own damning tracks.

Gradually long shadows faded into a diffuse blue-grey shade. Sergei’s pallid coat still faintly glowed with the twilight atmosphere. Only when he’d finally found the terrain he’d searched for did the young warrior abruptly dig furiously at the loam and roll around in wet leaves and decay. Smears of mud and plant debris stuck to his ivory robes, breaking up his shape into a mess of darkness and white patches. Not invisible - but not easily discerned if he stationed himself in a blind of fallen branches. When Gwyneira found him - and she would find him - she would have trouble making her first attack a fatal one since his vulnerable points were hidden behind a mosaic of mire.

Although his pulse thrummed through his veins, Sergei forced himself to remain deathly still in his hiding place. A fallen tree’s crown fenced him from the back, both sides, and above; it would not be impossible for his sister to reach him from any of these places, but it would be extraordinarily difficult for her to climb through the wooden network without so much as scraping the bark. The only branch-free path she had to him was straight on - and even then, with impromptu war-paint smudged over his canvas, Gwyn would have to study him hard to make out his head, his shoulders, his limbs where he’d buried them in the leaves. Counting backward from twenty, Sergei carefully, slowly lowered his muzzle to his forelimbs. He stilled his breath so that it would not plume in front of his face, nor stir the flakes of dirt around him. Come on, Gwyneira. Come find me.

She did. It took time, but eventually Sergei became aware of a presence that could only be his sibling. Clever girl . . . he had not yet seen her, so she must have tried sticking to the boulders as he predicted. She’d be forced to walk on the earth if she wanted to get anywhere near him. And her scent . . . only the faintest whisps, so small and thin in the air that when Sergei first caught a thread he thought his brain was playing tricks on him. There was no way he could utilize such paltry traces of perfume to track her. But then, that hadn’t been Sergei’s plot. He didn’t hunt like Gwyneira, didn’t fight like her either. If he attempted to find her, she’d destroy him in a blink. Gwyn would need to reveal herself with a mistake - or with her first assault. And of the many lessons Sergei had learned, patience was key.

Cruel Fate, Cruel Life!

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