His mind had been trapped in the ways of battle and reflexes; the bright-eyed boy was attentive to the danger this creature posed. Gaël could not call himself a peacemaker with the ceaseless bloodthirst he hardly wanted to bring up, but the yearling fashioned himself into a pacifist as much as he could, even if that was not what Inferni might have expected of him. He didn't want to kill a thousand wolves like they, not when they shared his blood. He cared little for the racism the clan maintained: Gaël had arrived there to learn to fight, to sharpen his skills, and to take down his father. He had no intentions of doing anything more.
An interrupting to this mindless spinning within his head was welcome. A third party, unsurprisingly unfamiliar to the inexperienced circlet boy, came and ripped the two combatants apart. Gaël could only scramble to his feet and attempt to dust the whole thing off his shoulders when his opponent withdrew, though fury still burned in his eyes. The yearling knew nothing about this new face, but authority leaked from his voice and his presence. The boy humbled himself immediately, though that was nothing short of normal, and kept his eyes at the ground. Somehow this was now his fault too, and he'd hardly done anything. That was the way things usually turned out. "Just a scuffle," he mumbled, averting his eyes. There was no need to point fingers and cause even more trouble for himself. "Dere was a misunderstanding."