Before dawn kissed the cliffs with light, Iskandor was already on his paws. Restless after too many days confined by illness, he sought the solace of the open air, his lone figure silhouetted in the clearing as he breathed in the morning’s chill. His dark, charcoal fur bristled at the crispness, and a quiet smile crept across his face. Between his teeth, he held a slender, finely sharpened knife, gripping its hilt with a practiced ease, his jaw flexing as he adjusted to the blade's weight.
Then, a call broke through the silence—a summons he would never ignore.
Obediently, he made his way to his parents, his steps light and eager. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he settled before his father, ready to absorb every word spoken.
—
Iskandor’s ears perked, his tail giving an instinctive, anticipatory flick as he processed his father’s words. A prize crafted by the blacksmith was enticing enough, but the promise of a boon—a chance to ask anything of his Warlord, without judgment—stirred something within. His gaze darted briefly to his siblings, sizing them up before even stepping into the ring.
It was all he could do but to nod, his lips twitching in anticipation.
