Shadewylf

1 - Power

There was a battle commencing.

Claws swiped. Fangs glistened. One fighter yelped in pain as one slash made contact with his snout, blood soaking into his grey fur.

Desperate, he tried to return the pain, jabbing his claws at the orange fur of his opponent. They were deflected easily. There was laughter, satisfied laughter. He tried again, and again, wishing every time that more power could build up behind each strike. But each time, his weak attempts only ended in more pain, and more laughter.

Before he knew it, he was pinned awkwardly against the ground, a powerful force keeping him pressed there. He struggled, but it was useless.

He had failed.

Again.

"Well done, Damon," came a voice from above. After a final squeeze, his opponent released him, and turned to the speaker.

"Thank you, uncle," Damon drawled, giving the wolf on the ground a triumphant glance. "But it was no effort. I mean no offence, but Thirty-Four is just as weak as last time."

As he climbed painfully to his paws, Thirty-Four could give him only a subdued glare. However much it hurt, it was true. He was weak, and that wasn't about to change.

But it was the next part that was the worst. Every time, it was the same. After the older wolf had finished congratulating Damon, he turned to Thirty-Four, anger glowing in his eyes like blazing fire.

"Do you learn nothing?" he hissed, towering over the grey pup. "You are my son. I expect only the best from my son." Flames licked around his neck. "But I get nothing from you, Thirty-Four. Just another failure."

Every time before, Thirty-Four would keep his head bowed, and only nod solomnly. But this time was different. He saw Damon, now being congratulated by his own parents, for the sole achievement of causing pain to the same defenceless pup.

It was unfair.

"I'm Peltless!" he protested, forcing himself to meet his father's eyes. "Damon already has his Flame Pelt! Once I have my Pelt, I will be stronger. You know that!"

It was a risk to talk back. One that didn't pay off.

Taking a threatening step forward, his father glared down at him, the fur around his neck blazing with fire. "With that performance, I doubt that." For a moment, Thirty-Four feared he might attack - but, of course, he never did. It was all words.

With a shake of his head, his father turned away. "Get out of my sight," he growled, his voice low and menacing. Thirty-Four didn't hesitate. His grey tail whipped around, and he fled. He didn't want to stay a moment longer.

There was only one place to recover from such an experience. Heart pounding, and the wound on his snout still stinging fiercly, he sprinted as fast as his little paws could manage. It wasn't a long journey from Damon's house, thankfully. All he focused on was the thud of his paws against the steep incline of the ground, beating in time to his thudding heart.

There it was. The hill.

A small grove of trees, sat atop the southernmost edge of the valley. Tiny flowers, with dainty yellow petals, spread a sweet scent in calming waves through the air. Pausing for a moment, Thirty-Four closed his eyes, forcing himself to take deep, steady breaths. In, and out. His father was nothing to get worked up about. It was the way things were. Hopefully, soon, it would all change.

When he got his Pelt.

It had to happen soon. It had to.

Most wolf pups got their Pelts when they'd reached twelve moons. Some even before that. But he was nearing his eighteenth moon, and yet... nothing. No sign of a Peltmark any time soon. Just another of his many failures.