Wanna Hear A Funny Joke? Yeah, Me Too.

Aresenn loped across the sparse pines, his paws trampling the brittle autumn grasses. The sun hung low on the horizon, tinting the sky in hues of orange and red that mirrored the fiery colors of the turning leaves. But Aresenn paid no heed to the seasonal beauty around him. His mind churned with thoughts of the trial, replaying each moment over and over.

Pride surged through him as he recalled how Dracun and Araxina had faced the mother bear, working together seamlessly to bring her down and then her adolescent cubs. It had been a thing of brutal elegance. Even the dispatching had been done efficiently, dispassionately. And yet, a thread of unease twined through Aresenn's satisfaction. Had Araxina hesitated a beat too long- Had Dracun been just a little bit slower- What would have happened? He would never forget the pit that had formed in his stomach. The restless unease of how he was meant to let them succeed or fail on their own. Thankfully it had been the former. He wouldn’t have known what he would have done had it been the later.

Aresenn shook his heavy head, trying to dislodge the needling doubts. They had done well, his offspring. Proved themselves worthy. He would not allow anything, even his own misgivings, to taint their victory.

As he grew closer to home, a familiar scent hit his nose, tinged with the unmistakable metallic tang of blood. Aresenn's pace quickened, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Something was wrong. Very wrong. His amber gaze fell on Absinth’s frame coming into view. But wasn’t just her. It was the limp form of his son, Indica, that commanded his attention. Aresenn froze, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the scene before him. Absinth stood over Indica's body, her emerald eyes hard as steel despite the blood that matted her fur. But it was Indica who drew Aresenn's gaze like a lodestone. His son lay unmoving, his dark coat stained with a spreading crimson.

No words were spoken. None were needed. The truth hung in the air, as heavy and suffocating as the scent of death. Aresenn moved forward as if in a trance, his paws carrying him to Indica's side. He lowered his muzzle, nudging his son's still form, as if hoping to wake him from this nightmare. But the boy remained motionless, his once bright eyes now dull and empty. A low, nearly inaudible, keening whine escaped Aresenn's throat, a sound of raw, primal grief. His son …. gone. Snuffed out. A fire extinguished.

He raised his head, his gaze locking with Absinth's once more. In that shared gaze, a thousand unspoken words passed between them. The weight of their loss, the depth of their grief, the bitter taste of failure - it all hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Aresenn saw his own anguish mirrored in Absinth's emerald eyes, though she held herself with a rigid control that he could not muster.

He watched as she turned away, her movements stiff and mechanical as she began to dig. The rhythmic scrape of her claws against the earth filled the silence, each sound a dagger to Aresenn's heart. He watched her work, numb and detached, as if observing from outside his own body. The world had narrowed to this moment, to the grim task before them. They failed. Aresenn's mind reeled, fractured thoughts chasing each other in dizzying circles. Indica had been ready, they had made sure of that. Every skill honed to a razor's edge, every instinct sharpened to a predator's keen. And yet, here they stood, over the cooling body of their son, their legacy cut short by the cruel whims of fate.

A snarl curled his lip, a flash of teeth in the gathering dusk. Aresenn stepped forward, his movements stiff and deliberate, as he joined Absinth in her grim task. He dug alongside her, his claws tearing into the earth with a ferocity born of grief and rage. The soil yielded under their combined efforts, a final resting place for their fallen son.

As they worked, Aresenn's mind churned, dark thoughts swirling like storm clouds. They had prepared Indica, had they not? Trained him, honed him, molded him into a weapon fit to survive the trials ahead. And yet, here they were, burying the shattered remnants of their hopes and dreams. The bitter taste of failure coated his tongue, mingling with the coppery scent of blood that hung heavy in the air.

Aresenn stepped back from the grave, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pants. His muscles ached from the exertion, but the pain was a distant thing, drowned out by the howling void that had opened in his chest. He stared at the simple mound of earth and rock, marking the spot where his son now lay. It looked so small, so insignificant. As if it could not possibly contain the magnitude of their loss.

He turned to Absinth, searching her face for...what? Comfort? Absolution? He found neither in the hard lines of her expression, in the steely glint of her eyes. She met his gaze unflinchingly, a silent challenge, a dare to give voice to the accusations that clawed at his throat- or of course, perhaps he was only projecting that. "How?" The word escaped him, rough and jagged, scraping past the tightness in his chest. "How could this happen?" His own question ignited his anger. "We prepared him!" he snarled, his hackles rising. "Every skill, every instinct - we gave him everything he needed to succeed.” It was senseless rage. But of course, it was easier for him to process wrath than sorrow. Oh, Indica. How could this happen?

"Aresenn Praetor"