Even while he had lived with those who had shared the naïve pretense of peace, Ezekiel had seen warriors. They were not cruel things, not made to fight, but they were capable. They would fight because the need to fight would come; from strangers with blood on their mind, from the wilderness. Violence was inherit. Gabriel’s son had known that even as a boy, though he had not faced war or turmoil as his clan had. He had known that because aggression lived in his heart, pacified only by mindless tasks and intoxicants.
He had used neither, as of late.
She avoided his blow, which pleased Ezekiel. Yet she looked sorry for such a thing. The coyote smiled, showing his teeth. “Good.” He said, taking a step to the side. “Again!” With that he rushed forward, swinging wide. At the same time, he lowered his stance, keeping the weight on his back foot.
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