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It was not uncommon for Max to rise before dawn, as he did nearly every day. He hunted at this time, favoring the night to help blend his blinding pelt in ways the sun could not. Unfortunately, he had not been successful. This soured his mood severely and led him to the mansion, trailing into the back door of the kitchen. Two legged, he began rooting through the pantry that had served as their food storage.

“Not even light out and tahyo come lookin’ for food,” a familiar voice drawled behind him. Max frowned and turned. While Rémy was among his closest friends, the older dog had a habit of rubbing him the wrong way. Still, Max put up with it well enough—though his poor mood produced a toothy snarl.

“You have any of that gumbo left?”

“Oh yeah,” the Cajun drawled on, and gave the Hastati a gentle shove. “Here, you git me two of dem dere bowls and we eat what’s left of it.”

Grumbling, the pale coydog did as he was bid. Rémy produced a large metal pot, smelling strongly of spice and various meats, and this pleased the Hastati well enough. A heaping pile of seafood, river-catch, and chunks of venison were put into his bowl. The two ate together, speaking briefly of the oddities of this approaching battle.

“I tell you,” Rémy went on, licking his chops. “If one of ‘em comes, dey all come next.”

“So you think there’s more too.”

“’Course dere is. Ain’t no two men gonna come unless dey got friends.”

As if to echo this, a sharp cry rose from beyond the fence. Max jerked to his feet. Ezekiel’s command was a singular one, and he felt dread sink into his gut. Rémy cursed and moved towards the door. His strange speech was almost impossible to understand, but he turned to the young warrior sharply. “Go, I ain’t lettin’ nobody git in here.”

In a flash, Max rushed out into the pre-dawn light. He was armed only with what he had managed to grab; the bow and arrows hanging from his side and a hatchet yanked from the wood pile in the kitchen. He hurried to the woods, hair all on end and eyes blazing.

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They were tactical, though Max was inexperienced with such a thing. He had seen little of killing and nothing of war. It stood to reason that he should have felt fear, but his dread dissipated with righteous fury. This was his home and he was a warrior of the clan. Combat sounded all around the woodlands and he heard a horse riding hard behind him. Others came next; two dark shapes he recognized as familiar but who lacked true identities to him. The man spoke and Max snarled a response—it was a stupid question and his patience was gone.

He notched an arrow as he ran. Three wolves on horseback broke through the trees. A gray man on a chestnut horse came directly for him, brandishing a sword. Max came to a sharp stop, his feet digging into the earth. In one motion he drew back the bow and fired the arrow. It struck the wolf in the shoulder, but the force was not enough to disarm him. Max barely scrambled out of the way when the sword sliced through the air, striking at his own shoulder and arm. Blood seeped freely and stained his white fur a ghastly color, but he was readying another arrow as the wolf and horse turned for a second attack.

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There was, within him, a beast whose sole purpose was to destroy. He had known it since birth—his purpose was that of some long dead god of chaos, set out into the world without a guide and without true meaning. Ezekiel had given him that meaning. Inferni had given him that meaning. A yellow eyed terror bled onto the grass beneath his feet and challenged the dark man rushing towards him. Max released the arrow and watched it sail through the air, clipping the stranger’s horse in his throat.

This did not kill him, but panicked the beast into rearing so sharply it threw the rider. Max rushed forward, throwing his bow to the side. A massive weight collided with the man even as he struggled to his feet. Training brought him down, but it was savagery that ended him. The hatched came down and struck hard in the man’s throat, cutting deep enough to open it. Blood poured from the wound and again, Max brought his arm down, and again, he cut him. He was snarling as he did so, bleeding and coating himself with each motion. This was what he wanted. This was what war tasted like.