Rain fell steadily, drumming down on the thick canopy of trees and trickling through, down to the marshland below. A gray wolf threaded himself through the frozen shadows, his red eyes the exact same shade of the mask of blood his face was hidden under. In his mouth he carried a bone, the femur bone of a wolverine – the bone that would spark a war.
Soon, he began to hear random barks and howls, like the sound of rocks clashing against each other. His marrow quivered with delight. He was nearing a rout of wolves – and it was his job to rally them and raise their blood thirst, on the direct orders of Ares.
The rout came into sight, and he saw that they were fighting over the remains of a cougar carcass. A red wolf stood snarling over the remains, while eight wolves edged closer, trying to shove each other out from the group. Something flashed in the red wolf’s green eyes, and he tore a chunk of meat out of the carcass and tossed it into the air. The eight yellow-eyed wolves immediately pounced, falling together in a snarling, tumbling mass.
The red wolf leaped into the air and landed on the back of a brown wolf. There was a loud popping sound, then a scream. The brown wolf appeared to break in the middle, his lower half skewing to one side and a jagged bone pushing through his pelt. The impact had snapped his spine.
The remaining wolves retreated slowly, swinging their heads with saliva dripping from their mouths in long threads. The red wolf stood his ground, baring his fangs and growling, ears jabbed forward and tail high. The message was clear: My food! Back off!
The gray wolf watched on, faint annoyance glittering in his eyes, but he did not reveal himself. This behavior was not unusual in the Clan of the Blinding Haze, named after the night fog that slid across the marshlands like an immense ghost ship. The Clan of the Blinding Haze was unlike any other wolf Clans, perhaps in the entire world. They defied all the common notions of wolf behavior, but that didn’t simply make them abnormal; rather, they were a downright outrageous insult to the precious Order other wolves cherished and followed. Survival was their only instinct, motivated only by viciousness and greed.
The red-eyed wolf known as Dunbar was no exception, though he was cleverer than most in his Clan. If there was one gift he possessed, it was the gift of manipulation.
So, with these thoughts in mind, he slipped out of his hiding place and charged the red wolf, snarling. Surprised, the red wolf tripped over his own paws in an attempt to jump back, and Dunbar darted forward to sink his fangs in into the red wolf’s haunches. Blood spritzed from the wound, and Dunbar backed away in disgust.
“Filthy mongrel! Out of my sight!”
The red wolf whined and backed away, and went to lie down near a rotting tree and bury his muzzle under his paws.
Dunbar rounded on a nearby yellow wolf, whose fur was ragged and unkempt. “Heep,” he growled, his upper lip curled in disgust. “Go get the bone I left in the shadows.”
Without asking any questions, Heep scurried off towards where Dunbar had first appeared and vanished in the shadows. A few heartbeats later he returned, and he dropped the bone before the red-eyed wolf, then raced off.
Dunbar licked the bone, rasping his tongue over it to read the words before rising his head and reciting what Ares himself had carved: “‘I, Ares Miles, leader of the Clan of the Blinding Haze, have grave news. The she-wolf Imber, the one-eyed wolf in the Red Night rout has vanished, running away from the Clan out of pure cowardice.’”
Yips and barks of disbelief broke out, and Dunbar silenced them with a glare before continuing: “‘While this might seem somewhat insignificant, let me further inform you by saying she left a cleave mark behind.’” There was a hush. A cleave mark was a mark left by a wolf breaking all ties with its Pack, or perhaps its Clan. Considered marks of aggression and great daring, they often caused a stirring in the marrow, a thirst for revenge – especially in the Clan of the Blinding Haze.
Dunbar eyed the wolves, pleased by the rising air of hunger. “This cannot be ignored,” he said, regarding the bone as if it no longer existed. “I have a proposition for you: if you follow me and train for war, there will be great reward.” Tails began to wag at this, the wolves exchanging excited glances with one another. Even the red wolf known as Morb pricked his ears in mild interest, lifting his head to look at Dunbar.
“Do you swear by your marrow to train for battle?” the red-eyed wolf asked. Yaps and barks of vowing broke out, and Morb stood up, trembling with excitement as though he had forgotten that just a few minutes before Dunbar had attacked him.
“Then let us celebrate.” Dunbar glanced at the dead brown wolf, then at the half-eaten cougar carcass. His voice was soft when he said, “Time to eat.”
The wolves pounced, ripping into the flanks and belly of both animals, the tenderest parts. The air was flooded with the scents of torn muscles, ripped intestines, and stripped bone, mingling with the permanent smell of carrion. Muzzles became stained with blood. Amidst the chaos, an ugly smile appeared on Dunbar’s face.
