The air is heavy as you make your way through unknown territory, as you pause to sniff the air a drop of rain falls onto your nose. It is soon followed by another and another and soon the rain is pelting down in sheets, soaking you to the bone. The clouds are an angry purple and the menacing drumming of thunder rolls over the sky. Squinting your eyes against the blinding water you find yourself at the edge of a large, dark pine forest. You are too desperate for shelter to notice the scents that mark the border and plunge in, and nearly into the chilly stream that runs through the territory. You veer away and as you are shaking the water out of your fur you notice a large pair of icy blue shards gazing at you. The storm has passed now and beams of sunlight filter through the thick canopy of pines, illuminating a massive male wolf not three feet away from where you stand.

His pelt looks like a bad patchwork job of black and white and beneath them you see large, hard bands of steely muscle and you know this is a warrior for his torso is marred with many battle scars. His banner curls over his back and his lips are drawn, exposing sharp ivory daggers. When he speaks his voice is deep and dominant, like the thunder you so recently heard.

"Wolf, you have found yourself in the terra of the Andere Seite Pack. I am Eclipse, king of this land."

It is only then that you notice another pair of lanterns gleaming in the penumbra and a dark-pelted fae slinks out into the clearing to stand next to the king, her own banner waves and her green and blue eyes bore into you. She is the same size as most males and a crisscrossing pattern of scars show that she too can take care of herself. Her voice is cold and has a snake-like sound to it yet you can see they are both fair rulers.

"And I am Nephthys, queen of Andere. We don’t care much for strangers so you must make your choice, Submit to us now or flee our lands and never return. If you fail to do either you will have little time left to regret it."

The formidable pair pierces you with their gaze and you feel as if all your secrets spill out before them. You are left with a decision now. Will you submit and take refuge in this dark forest or will you flee and never know what secrets these trees hide? Make haste, you can see that the pair grow tired of waiting.

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Lyudmila was filled with love, and this pure and beautiful love made her a ferocious little female to confront. Fires of adoration made her ivory irises gleam with white-hot heat, untouchable, and they warmed her even when she sat by herself to gaze at the glittering stars cast across the heavens. When she thought of her lovely mother, her precious siblings, her love swelled and roared inside of her—and she wanted to sing that love at the top of her lungs. She wanted to deafen her enemies with that love. Her affection could smash the red boulders of her homeland into so much russet dust. Her love was gigantic, and so she became a giantess in its embrace, no matter that she was but a girl with a puppy-soft pelt like the down of a chick and paws too big for grace. Mila did not know her father, but she reckoned she loved him as well. Why not? Her heart overflowed, a wild crashing waterfall, and there was enough of herself to pour over strangers and ignite them the same way she burned. A love that destroyed hatred, and fear, and loneliness. A power so frightening and complete that Lyudmila scoffed at the very concept of “fear.”

Adventurous—reckless, perhaps—the fluffy faeling found herself creeping out toward the border, again, hoping to find some excuse to sneak across it. The last time she’d done so, traveling far out into the fields, she’d met a boy that still lingered in her mind. Bennington . . . a lad with fur so lightly brown he was almost white. She’d been fascinated by the softness of his pelt, eagerly comparing it to the creamy whiteness that blanketed her own short frame. With the exception of her fiery auburn mask, Mila represented her father, but in miniature: a teeny tundra lass of feathery alabaster, with the same overgrown snowshoe feet and tough façade. She stood out like a snowball in hell against Crith Thalmhainn’s carmine landscape; everywhere the pigment of iron and copper and tarnished minerals surrounded her. How she so loved her vast palace . . . Crith looked forever like a sunset, or some alien place of carved stone. Nowhere did the stars gleam so clearly, the sunset blaze through the heavens so magnificently. The princess’s heart boomed its affectionate music, pounding, reeling—

Stopping.

Suddenly.

Lyudmila’s breath snagged harshly in her throat, all the emotion throbbing in her breast choked into painful silence. Her silly paws had carried her toward the edge of a raised platform, one of many that diced Crith’s horizon, and below her she witnessed a horrifying scene. There lay Murina, a quiet wolfess Mila only knew in the periphery, a constant tender presence. She’d been pinned between two enormous males: one the color of wet earth, the other a stark contrast of white and black and . . . red. The unbearably bright red of blood. On his face, dripping down his jowls, wetting his throat, and caught between his gnashing teeth was a body, but barely a body, because from here it looked broken down and chewed into limp pieces that dangled obscenely before Mila’s wide eyes like the disjoined limbs of a marionette—robbed of life and yet mocking the life that this corpse once held—and from this distance she could smell the acid stink of Murina’s visceral fear and the hot-metal aggression of the males and the unnatural fluid smell of the child’s blood hanging out hanging from the monster’s teeth—

A wrenching, animal howl tore through the arid atmosphere—and it was Lyudmila’s voice, a noise between a wail and a scream shredding past her vocal cords with so much emotional volume it hurt her own ears. She realized she was leaning dangerously over the precipice, her dainty claws clenched into a death grip on the stone, every hair on her body lifted into a stiff halo. Icy lanterns glistening with tears that seemed frozen in place. Trembling violently. She pulled air into lungs to scream again—to shriek curses down at those heartless BEASTS, to CURSE them, to mourn the death she could not stop—but as she went to slam her rage down at those who dared harm her pack she gagged and doubled over with the urge to vomit. No no no. They’re hurting Murina and Aguta and I have to tell Mommy right now. “BASTARDS!” The word might have sounded comical, coming from the voice of a mere girl—a hysterical high-pitched soprano better suited for giggling. But a raw edge made that single word serrated, hateful, and there could be no mistaking the anger flooding Lyudmila’s silhouette.

She pulled her lips back from her daggers, emitting a puppy-ish snarl that was no less fierce for its pitch, and pivoted away at a dead sprint. She did not stick around to see if Aguta were really alive, if not grievously injured; she did not wait to plead mercy with the two hideous males. Never had her smallness enraged her so . . . never had her love felt so powerless. I will make them pay.


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