A wolf exploded from the brush and on his lips came a scream. Had Hezekiah any knowledge that what he was screaming was a language, he would not have assumed that the wolf that charged him was crazy. But he didn’t, so Sicarus was very much an insane figure to him. That streamlined figure, a grey flecked with gold and earth—typical markings which he gave to a wolf—had the upper hand. He easily outsized Hezekiah’s meagre secui form and despite not possessing the speed that the smaller canine would have had. It wouldn’t take much for him to uncover that his opponent was horribly inexperienced, no, the first swing he took easily connected with the startled boy.
He hissed and recoiled, but didn’t cry out. This was by far not the first blow Hezekiah had ever taken in his life and certainly would not be his last. But this was unlike being at the other end of his former life. He had always stood there to take his blows. But this wolf wasn’t a coyote and wasn’t his father, and this time it wasn’t just a matter of waiting for him to stop. No, this time he had to fight for his life. So Hezekiah lunged immediately after Sicarus’s arm, wasting no more than a second from blow to counteraction with a snarl erupting from deep in his chest.
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