As the venerable Elder wolf walks off, I’m left alone with Swiftrunner, who’s began giving himself a little bath beside me.

“Alright, let’s get a few things clear,” I say, looking into the eyes of my new white wolf companion as he administers some liberal licks to his nether regions. “First, I call the shots. If I say we go somewhere, then we go there.”

He looks right back at me and howls to the moon.

“Agreed,” he says, straightening up. “Unless you are going to make a wrong move, I will not correct you.”

That doesn’t exactly sound like he agrees but, eh, I’ll go with it.

“Secondly, uh, sometimes I have to be carried. For, um, medical purposes. Bad back. Small paws. I get tired. It’s my breeder’s fault, really, whoever they are. I mean, who the heck decides to breed a Corgi in a world as messed up as this?”

Another howl. “Understood, Little-Brother!” he shouts. “Unless I feel you are deliberately trying to take advantage of my kindness, I shall acquiesce to carry you.”

Again, does that really sound like an ‘agreement’ to you?

“Uh…final thought,” I say. “This ‘Little-Brother’ stuff. Um, how about just calling me Raziel? It’s my name. I…I think.”

No howl this time. He looks at me with the same kind of puppy-dog eyes I’d give a stingy butcher holding out on me.

“…I have always wished for a little brother.”

Little does this feral wolf know, he’s talking to the master of the cute-beggar combat style.

“Well, I’m supposed to be this prophesized hero, right? If folk hear you calling me ‘Little-Brother’ they might get the wrong idea.”

“Ah!” he shouts, scratching his already scarred nose. “I understand you. It is a tad too formal. Perhaps ‘Lil-Bro’ would be more to your liking? I have often heard humans refer to their kin this way. Or, maybe ‘fam’ is more preferable to-“

“None of that!” I bark, though to him it sounds more like the squeak of a child. “The last thing I want is to copy the humans. They’re gonna think I’m a total weirdo. Just…just call me Raziel or…Raz, I guess.”

“Raz,” he says, mulling over the name. “Yes. This sounds acceptable.”

“Alright then,” I say. “Uh, carry on, Swifty.”

He double blinks. “Pardon?”

“Swifty,” I say again. “If we’re doing the whole nickname thing, I’ll give you yours. All good?”

He chews it over, his jowls clenching within his grey mane.

Finally, he beams me a fang-filled smile.

“It is an honor to be given a title from the Loafblade himself,” he says.

----------------------------------------

Within the cave-system of Clan Jagged-Tooth, everyone’s packing up their stuff. They even have little moth-bitten bags for taking rations with them.

Why am I wandering back through this tunnel, you might ask? Well, only Swiftrunner truly knows. Apparently, before the Clan leaves on this exodus to find their new home, we have to go through something called the ‘Feast of Final Sky’.

Personally, I like the ‘feast’ part.

“Hey, Swifty,” I say, shaking my head at the fourteenth wolf that’s bowed at me from within their den. “You seem like pretty…I dunno…advanced wolves.”

“We of Jagged-Tooth were the first wolves to learn the ways of the human huntsmen,” he explains. “We did not know then, but the first tribe we met under the dark skies of Arwyll’s earliest days would go on to become the first Greycloaks, who’s leader slew the Prime Darkseed and ushered in an era of peace for all sentient life to grow and flourish once more in the world.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

His expression grows grim as he casts his eyes over his coughing people, helping a few of them to their feet as they go to greet their loved ones who have been wounded in the battle.

“Though many have forgotten the ancient times,” he continues. “Humans stopped caring about us. They stopped remembering that we were the first to aid them in their struggle to survive. Now they thrive by pillaging these lands and building their wooden huts and steel towers. They do these things to protect themselves from eachother. Armies make wars, overpopulation leads to disease, and the Greed of the noble human Lords in their high castles lead to famine and starvation for those beneath them. In truth, the more humankind advances, the more destruction they wrought upon their own kind.”

“Well, I guess,” I shrug. “But hey, you gotta take the good with the bad, right? I mean, their hands are practically engineered for optimum headpatting.”

He twists his neck to me. “What is this ‘head-patting’ you speak of, Raz?”

I shake my head at him. “Oh, Swifty,” I say. “You have much to learn.”

We arrive at a well-lit cavern – by far the widest space in the whole cave system. Looks like all the top wolves are in here – crowded round a vast pool in the middle of the whole chamber, while others look down from ridges lining the tops of the cavern walls. At the head of the pool sits the venerable Witherfang, proud and regal, looking up at both me and Swifty as we enter.

“Behold the Lightborn!” Witherfang cries out, his voice echoing through every tunnel of the clanhome.

The wolves repeat his greeting, and I wonder whether I should bow, curtsey, or howl back at them.

I decide on a little howl, and they yip approvingly.

“Hear his voice!” Witherfang continues, coming to stand in the shallow pool. “Feel his presence. Be welcome here, Raziel. He who has taken the blood of the fallen and risen as the Lightborn. He who has accepted the title of Loafblade, ally of Clan Jagged-Tooth, and all of canine-kind – hail!”

“Hail!” cry the rest of the wolves. “Hail! Hail! Hail!”

“Swifty,” I whisper to my equally hailing companion. “Are you folks always this loud?”

“It is our time of praise!” he howls back at me. “Come, Raziel. The Elder beckons.”

I follow Swift towards the lip of the pool, feeling the backs of other wolves rub themselves against me as I go.

“Let the Feast of Last Sky commence,” Witherfang then calls. “Bring forth the sacred offerings! Let us make our bond of kinship with the Lightborn!”

Some drums start playing from somewhere in the cavern, and as I’m sitting here just wondering what the hell this all means, I see two wolf females emerge carrying a stone plate with something putrid-smelling on its surface.

One of them tosses a piece to Swiftrunner. The other one offers the rest of the helpings on the plate to me with a reverent bow.

“Brother Swiftrunner,” Witherfang says, his voice an echo of authority that travels through the ears of every wolf assembled. “You have been chosen to guide the Loafblade on his journey to Glumgavel, fortress of the Grey. Do you accept your sacred duty?”

No hesitation from Swifty. “I do.”

The drumbeats echo louder. It’s my turn now.

“Raziel,” Witherfang says. “You are called to commit to the path of the Lightborn. Do you swear here, under the eyes of Palka the White, to dedicate yourself, body and soul, to see through your destiny?”

I look up at Witherfang, feeling the pounding of the drums shake up my whole fluffy system, and see now what’s been lingering on the wall behind him: the stenciled image of a great white wolf bearing its shining teeth like a set of silver blades.

And emerging from its jaws, standing tall and proud, is a dog with a sword in its teeth.

So, this is your prophecy…

I look around me at the whole assembly and see their watchful eyes waiting for my words. Even the wounded wolves, still dripping with blood from the scars of the recent battle, have come to bear witness to this event – probably something they’ll tell their great great great great grandpups about.

I smile. Surprisingly, I actually smile.

“Raz?” I hear Swiftrunner whisper beside me.

Who am I to deny you all this?I wonder. You didn’t just want a hero. You actually wanted me. But you did say I had a choice, didn’t you, Witherfang?

I think of the Pale Man outside and his honeyed words. I think of the living twigs that sliced at me, and then I think of them crumbling to dust as I carved through them.

Then I think of the dog I was only forty-eight hours ago, shivering away in the cold dampness of my cage, poking my nose out for scraps and wondering if I’d ever see the light of day again.

And through my shivers, I give my answer.

“I do.”

The Elder wolf smiles.

“Then let the feast commence. Partake now of the body of our ancestors, and feel their strength flow through you.”

I stare confusedly at the Elder for a second as Swiftrunner digs into his plate, and then, slowly but surely, I crane my neck to look down at the pieces of hair-strewn intestines draped over the plate beneath my nose.

[Snoop]

Object Identified: Common Grey Wolf (DECEASED) lower intestines.

Potential usage: Consumption

Effect: Consumption of intestinal tracts will do nothing for your figure, but may impart knowledge stored deep in the gut.

Vomit Chance: 65%

I gulp, looking across at Swiftrunner as he devours his portion of his kin, and the drumbeats and howls of the wolves grow ever more rapturous.

Cannibalism, I wonder. Really?

Should’ve thought of that before you said ‘yes’, you dumb mutt.

But Witherfang says nothing in the face of my fear, and the wolves of the assembly only increase their wild chants.

“Alright,” I say. “But there better be some awesome knowledge in these bad boys.”

I hold my nose, close my eyes, and dig in.

[Consume]