The War for Eventyr

2 | Something So Small

The kit fell from his muzzle. On their day-long journey through the grasslands, the mass of flesh had started to stink. Colborn was the only one who could smell it: the stench of death.

And regret.

He looked up at his father. His dark fur was set ablaze against the sun, sinking behind him on the horizon. The fox was a living flame––lustful for terror and destruction.

"Well done, my son."

Colborn tipped his drooping muzzle upward, and he met the prideful fire in his father's eyes.

"Thank you, Jarl." He paired the words with a nod of respect. But he didn't deserve praise for his deeds.

His father stepped closer, lifting the kit from the ground, and returned to perch atop a large boulder. He dropped it at his paws and faced the crowd of Flameborn gathered.

"This fox is becoming a mighty Kriger," he boomed. "And he has led us in another victory against those scheming, Shadow fools."

Colborn timidly cast his gaze to the foxes around him. They cheered on his achievement with yips and howls. He only wanted to die––like the kit at his father's feet.

Finally, his gaze focused on another crimson-pelted fox beside the boulder. His brother grinned at him across the clearing.

A smile tugged his lips, but Colborn quickly drew his eyes away and placed them back on the Jarl, now treading a dramatic circle atop the boulder. He swallowed the fleeting moment of joy.

"There is a fire in my son." His voice was low and hoarse, like a fox who'd been breathing in smoke for far too long. "He's one step closer to becoming your unstoppable leader."

More hollering. Each bark burned into his skull, and Colborn resisted the urge to flatten his ears. He stood up taller instead, basking in his father's warm glow.

"With one final trial, Colborn will be your Jarl." He placed his coal-colored claws around the body of the kit. "I have no doubt that he will conquer the land that belongs to us." He shoved it off the rock, and it landed on the ground with a thump.

Colborn kept his eyes on his father, even as the screaming around him faded into a single yowl. He could almost hear the kit bay from its tiny muzzle, and its voice fizzled out with a whine. The whimper of death.

"Eventyr will be ours."

This time, he echoed the war cries around him. Every Flameborn voice in Muspell filled the darkening sky with their support for the war. For the taking of more innocent blood. For him to lead it.

All except for one.

His brother, Jakob, didn't cheer. The joy had been ripped from his muzzle. Colborn's voice caught in his throat, tracing the tod's eyes to where they lingered. The sight of death.

He wished that his brother didn't have to see it, that his father wouldn't make him watch every vulgar exchange of violence in hopes to strip him of his innocence. In many ways, Colborn envied his littermate––born smaller. Weaker. He didn't have to bear the burden of being an heir. He was allowed to have emotions.

He didn't have to kill.

His father strangely guarded his life as much as he pushed his other son into the claws of danger. Colborn was expected to live or die fighting. Thankfully, he succeeded at the latter, letting it harden his heart to the bloodshed. Jakob wasn't so lucky.

His runt of a brother took a step forward, despite Colborn's silent pleas for him to back away. Even if his father would never kill him, his hide bore the scars of past lessons.