Never before had he seen one so young in such fear of himself, in such fear of his own fate. Those with still a grasp on their youth stayed reckless as late as they could; they didn't care for their own sins, playing them off like games they would never be blamed for due to their unknowing youth or inexperience or something similar. They would regreet it all when they grew older, if they did; many who did not recognize their own sins never grew old. They were killed, like Haku, much before their time—and like Haku, they usually deserved it.
But Silas was the opposite. His worries plagued his youth, disallowing any space outside of the constant fear, or so Jefferson assumed. Green eye raised to watch him, to peer into the soul Silas was so openly bearing. The Patriarch hardly knew the Russian—and they lived in opposing packs—and yet, somehow, they were united in their sins.
"You're young, Silas," the cyclops said, dipping his head. They were similar in that sin alone, but in nothing else. Silas could not imagine the horrors Jefferson had committed, or the monstrosity Maluki had been that the cyclops himself could not fully understand. Silas would never know that. "You have time and regret. You'll be fine."
He raised his head, glaring at a skull-tipped stake just feet away. "...Your first step is getting out of this hellhole."
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