So, ok, a couple of things:

1) I’m apparently the prophesized savior of this world (‘Arwyll’?)

2) Turns out that just means that I’m an unpaid assassin.

3) It’s been at least 72 hours since my last (self-administered) belly-rub.

4) What in the name of any Gods that exist up there is a MORPH?

These questions plague me as I join Witherfang at the edge of the wolves den, watching the rest of them preparing rations and water for this journey – this Exodus – that Witherfang insists they must now undertake. Swiftrunner has mainly been administering to the wounded, particularly Snappingjaw, whom he licks affectionately even as she hurls half-hearted bites at him, telling him she’s perfectly fine and wants to help her Sisters.

“Those two always have been a good pairing,” Witherfang says, and when I look at him with a smirk of disbelief he adds: “Opposites often attract.”

I respond with a liberal scratch behind my ears. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Something’s bothering me that still buzzes behind my eyes with the fury of a lightning bolt – this dumb MORPH thing:

[Wag] LVL II -> III

---SKILL MORPH UNLOCKED---

MORPH CHOICES:

1. Tailcopter: Your tail power enables you to levitate during a successful [Wag] action for a short duration (30 seconds).

2. Spike-growth: Your tail now functions as a piercing weapon during a successful [Wag] action.

My vision clouds over with all these words as Witherfang chuckles, deep and merry.

“I can see it in you,” he says. “The meditation known only to the Lightborn – one imbued with magic beyond the bounds of our knowledge.”

“Wish you could tell me what it all means,” I reply with a wet sniffle. “To be honest I’ve just kind of been going with it.”

“You will learn,” Witherfang states, looking out across the whole blasted forest beneath his feet. “You must trust your judgement. You being the Lightborn is no coincidence, after all.”

Yeah, right, I think, pawing at the ‘Tail-Copter’ Morph thingy. I gotta admit, it’d be nice to fly for a little bit. I always did think that those fine feathered birdies had all the luck.

Just as I press down on the little floaty letters my tail begins kicking into full gear, and I feel myself lifted into the air by my butt alone.

[Tailcopter]

ACTIVATED

I scream every second. I assume by this point that should be obvious.

“Hark!” Swiftrunner shouts to his fellows as he chastises an unruly pup nearby. “The Lightborn has discovered the gift of flight!”

Amidst more ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ from the excitable crowd I plummet back to the dry earth at Witherfang’s feet.

“Miraculous,” he whispers as the others turn back to their affairs. “It is said the Lightborn will come to know any sword technique, combat maneuver, or social etiquette as though they have always been known to him. But to see it firsthand,” he pauses, a single tear being wept from his good eye. “It is more than this old heart believed he would ever see.”

“I’m happy for you,” I say, pancaked on the hard ground. “But didn’t you say it was time for me to learn the truth?”

He shakes his proud mane. “Of course. I know you must be hesitant about your destiny. I know you must think us mad for the things we say about you. For how we look at you.”

Well, yeah, I reason. But no madder than a dog taking flight via his tail alone.

His face grew grave once more as he considered the living dark of the forest that stretched out before the den – hundreds of miles of dead trees and decaying vegetation.

“The Darkseed is a being known to us,” he begins. “To all life in Arwyll, the legend states thus: A Darkseed will rise, and a Lightborn shall come. Thus will ensue a battle between both for the future of our realm. The Darkseed’s triumph is our extinction. The Lightborn’s victory is our ascension.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I peer up at him like a child being schooled on basic mathematics.

“In other words – you win, we live. It wins, we die.”

I shrug. “Why couldn’t you just say that the first time?”

He smiles. “I am not Elder of this clan for nothing. At times, we leaders require a little pinch of the theatrical.”

I chuckle beneath my breath and join him now, sitting beside this great, noble beast and looking down at the place I was sure I would live out the rest of my days only a few hours ago.

“I know you did not ask for this,” he says suddenly, in a hushed whisper that hints at shame. “I know I played my part in leading you to do what you did. But I did not know that it would be the Lightborn himself whom you would meet. I did not know that you would take his blood into you, and so assume his burden.”

“How did you know that’s how it works?” I ask. “That the only way the Lightborn lives is by – by drinking their blood?”

He does not meet my eyes as he replies, “Lyca told me. Decades ago, as I slumbered with the first of my clan, wet and sniveling, with only our teeth and claws to protect us from the spears and arrows of humankind, I was given a vision from the Pale wolf herself.”

I feel my breath catch in my throat.

A pale wolf…

“She revealed to me through the strange language of a God that one of our species would come when the darkest shadow throws itself across our lands. For years I thought it would be one of my clan. We scouted the surrounding region to no avail. Then, on the night I met you, I felt the paw of the Pale Wolf upon my back.”

I’ll bet you did, I think. Or, at least, I bet that’s exactly what that bastard wanted you to think.

I sigh under the weight of all this – of responsibility, duty, heroism. All words that, it should go without saying at this point, do not apply to my kind.

But then, I’m not really a Corgi anymore, am I? I’m something different now…

“Lightborn,” I murmur under my breath. “You know what? I think I prefer Loafblade.”

I know Witherfang is smiling as we both watch the morning sun finally creep over the horizon.

“Morning dawns,” he says with a little flick of his tail. “And with it, a new destiny for our people. I shall take them to the South – away from the forest, away from the minions of the Darkseed. We shall join with our brethren in the Jalakal Outbacks. It is a rugged land. A land hostile to life – but one, at least, where life can still live.”

I stare up at him.

“I can come with you.”

“Loafblade,” he says. “I have my task, and you no doubt have yours.”

“I guess,” I mumble. “I think your Pale Wolf spoke to me about that when I was out.”

“And said what?” he asks with such fervent interest that I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth.

“He – er – she told me to find the fortress of the Greycloaks.”

“Of course,” the Elder wolf replies. “Glumgavel – the stronghold of the Grey. They have always guarded the Lightborn. Till recently, we believed they would triumph this day. But for reasons we can only guess at, their battle went awry.”

“Battle?”

“Indeed. They charged out in a grand muster that would have rivalled the armies of even the richest human king of Arwyll. Their forces stretched out like a long a silver snake glimmering in the twilight of day’s end, with the Lightborn at their head. But they failed. Betrayed, it appears, by a General who pledged himself to their cause. One who now serves the Darkseed.”

I turn back to the sun now looming over us all – the only sign of life on the horizon.

“Why?”

“Who can say?” Witherfang says with another shake. “The hearts of men harbor shadows darker than any Seeded beast. Perhaps this General believes he can outsmart the Darkseed. Perhaps he thinks the path of evil to be a righteous one. Perhaps there is some dark reward promised to him for his service. Whatever the motivations of this man, take heed, Loafblade: beware the vanguard of the Demon-Flower. Beware General Thorn.”

“’Thorn?’” I scoff. “His name’s General Thorn? Really?”

“Laugh if you will,” Witherfang replies. “But with a single stroke, he plunged a dagger in the hope of this world. He shall seek you out as shadows seek to snuff out candlelight. For that reason, I am giving you the one thing I can give a God’s emissary that shall be of any use to you.”

I cock my head at him as I hear the soft pitter patter of thin, but assured, paws approach from behind.

“The gift of a friend.”

I turn in the face of this cringe-inducing statement to see – yes – the worst possible result.

“My Lightborn Little-Brother,” Swiftrunner says. “I have trained, meditated, and offered prayers to Lyca in preparation for this day. I have supplies we can use for the journey, and if necessary, can be useful in hunting down prey. We can live off the land and make it to the Fortress of Glumgavel in a tenday if we leave tomorrow.”

I stare blankly at the panting white-wolf, and then return my gaze to Witherfang.

“I thought maybe your gift would be like knowledge, or a weapon, or maybe a map?”

The Elder smiles. “We are but simple wolves, Loafblade. Our maps are our minds. And Swiftrunner holds the best mind among us.”

Then I really am doomed…

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I ask, trying to avoid eye-contact with the bowing wolf practically groveling at my feet.

The old wolf gazes down at me for a time and then towards his people still ministering to their wounded for the journey ahead. Then a bright smirk lights across his face, and he returns his attention to the sun-speckled sky beyond his home.

“Before you drank the blood of the Lightborn, you asked me a question,” he says to me. “Do you remember your words?”

I do. Of course, I do.

Because ever since you said it, this word has – I don’t know – haunted me.

“I asked you what ‘Freedom’ means.”

He nods. “It is the ability to make a choice,” he says to the shimmering sun. “Some believe that their paths are laid out for them from the day of their birth. Others believe the mantle of responsibility is thrust on them – weighing them down for the rest of their lives. They say this is simply the way of nature. The law of this world handed down by the Gods, maybe. But the truth is known to us who run in the night. We, who live off the land, and who have coexisted with nature long before humans first crawled forth from the muck of creation. We know that there is always a choice.”

He smiles at me and bows his head low. And, as cliché as this all feels, I find myself doing the same.

“I have chosen to Shepherd my people,” he says. “I chose to find you. And now, I have given unto you my most trusted scout in the entire clan. I do these things so that you can make your choice: to walk the path of your destiny, or to run wild with us. Either way,” he says with a sly wink. “I have a feast to organize before our exodus. You are cordially invited.”

He walks off with a final swish of his tail and gives Swiftrunner a playful nip. He’s left me standing here, tail between my legs, looking like a fat loaf baking in the morning sun.

“Hey!” I call to him as he goes. “I bet we both know what I’m gonna choose, don’t we?”

Without seeing his face, I know he is smiling.