Generational Trauma

The young pup straightened his stance, each breath drawn a clear statement of his defiance. His muscles ached from overexertion, small cuts and scratches marring the vibrant blue of his fur. Yet the pain was nothing compared to the humiliation that was clawing at him, threatening to undermine his resolve. He wouldn’t let his father see him falter, not now. He’d rather swallow hot coals than let the Sultan know his cutting words had hit their mark.

His gaze remained trained on the elder wolf, green eyes defiant in the face of his father's arrogance. "I am not afraid," he declared in a lower tone. Xairo's heart pounded in his chest, his small frame shuddering with each beat. He in fact was afraid, but he would not back down, the fire of his spirit flaring brighter in his chest. His lips curled back into a snarl as he stared up at Sephiran, the contempt clear in his gaze. "So let the ravens go hungry.” Xairo retorted. The wind picked up then, ruffling his fur and carrying the salty scent of the sea to his nose. The boy tilted his head slightly, ears twitching at the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocky shoreline of the Polar Sound.

"Xairo Saxe"