The last time the boy had gotten his paw trapped was during a flight from a monstrous border guardian. This time, he was the hunter, but that didn’t change his situation or give it any less terrifying urgency. He wasn’t about to get eaten by a furious behemoth, and he was in his own territory, but it hurt a lot more, and it was dark.
Shapes that had baffled and excited him distorted into grotesque figures: leaves blotting out the stars, more roots reaching toward him like sinuous snakes. He bristled and snarled, the guttural sound that left his throat scaring him almost as much as the shadows. It sounded like the snarl of the night, which had finally found a beast of light in its midst: one that did not belong. And it would do its damnedest to destroy this light if it had the chance.
Skoll jerked his paw again, rolled over, and gritted his teeth as his shoulder was wrenched by the motion. Keeping his leg low, he took a few deep breaths of the cool midnight air and pulled his foot free. He put his weight on it, dense flame shooting up his leg, but he managed to limp forward, shoving his endurance against the pain.
Now—the prince had to find his brother.
He flattened his ears and swung his head suspiciously from side to side as he started down the wooded path. He tread as quietly as he could, an awkward lurching gait due to his sore paw, and quickly found himself turned around. Once again, all the creatures of the night seemed to be clamoring and conspiring to hunt him; even the melody of the crickets had turned into a dissonant scirch scirch that was sharp and almost menacing.
A wolf howled.
Skoll froze, ginger ears coming up, a shiver running through him until he recognized the boy’s voice within the mournful cry. It stirred something in him, something wild and fierce and not all that kind, but his mind recognized what his ancestors’ power could not: that it was a call meant for him. He set three legs in a firm stance, his throbbing paw tucked up, and craned his neck back to let out a howl of his own.
His was not the soulful, musical note of his dark brother. His howl was a thing that could be described as wolfy rather than wolf. It had in it a volume and power that lacked beautiful subtlety, and a bit of the warbling of huskies and malamutes lost in the north and left to interbreed with their wild kin. It was not a song or a cry, just a howl.
But he did not analyze it. It was loud, and that was what mattered, and as he shut his mouth Skoll blundered in the direction of Hati’s voice.
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