The eye of the storm

Aslatiel would not be attending the meeting. Arcturus would not either. Her mother was deliberately distancing herself from the rest of the pack and their family for reasons Satira wasn't entirely sure she was aware of. The loss of Naiche had grievously wounded her mother and brother, but deep down, Satira knew something else was up. She'd felt the discomfort between her little family and the rest of the Fatalises for some time. Her brain was far too young to comprehend the reasons why. All she knew was that she didn't like it. She didn't like feeling like things weren't right. So when the call went out for the Armada to gather for the meeting, Satira sat dutifully beside the den entrance, watching and waiting to see if her family would go. When they made no effort to, Tira decided to go on her own. She was nearly three seasons old now; she could make some calls for herself.

Hurrying across the plains to the obelisk where the rest of the pack had gathered, Satira cringed inwardly to realize practically everyone else had assembled by now. She was late—so very much so that she couldn't even call it fashionable. Darting and weaving her tiny body between the legs of larger wolves, Satira gazed around at the serious expressions on the faces of her grandparents, her uncles and aunts... And then pale blue eyes fell upon her father. A huge, saccharine smile spread from ear to ear and the little girl rushed over to go and nestle herself comfortably between her sire's paws. She didn't say anything, not wanting to cause a scene or interrupt, but reached up to go and boop the bottom of Mojito's chin with her tiny nose in a little puppy kiss. "Hi Daddy!" she whispered up to him, barely able to contain her excited wiggles while she settled in with him to see what everyone was gathered for.

"Satira"