Generational Trauma

The taunting words of his father echoed in Xairo’s ears, each syllable a raw and cruel reminder of the expectations weighing heavily on him. Pitiful. The word stung more than any wound, it was a slap to the face, a harsh rebuke that made him wince in shame. "I let it live to tell other badgers what awaits them should they cross me," Xairo muttered, rising shakily to his feet. His legs threatened to buckle under him, but he held his ground, meeting Sephiran's dual-colored gaze with defiance.

In the silence that followed, Xairo could practically feel his blood thrumming through his veins, each beat of his heart a testament to his determination. His fur, once soft and fluffy, was matted with blood and grime. As the Sultan tried to implore that the badger would hunt him down, Xairo's green eyes flashed with an inner fire that belied his youthful age. "Let it come," he snarled, his voice low and aggressive. He'd had enough of fear. Enough of feeling inadequate. He was a warrior, and warriors didn't cringe before their enemies. They faced them. Just as he had. Just as he would continue to do so. "I'll fight it again. And again. However many times it takes."

"Xairo Saxe"