The strange twilight the swamp had become was perfect for the hunt. He ran as a wolf, his senses sharp, his gaze keen. He hugged the shadows, loped tirelessly, knowing his pack was near, always at his side, just waiting for his howl to alert them to good prey. For many days and nights now, they had hunted together, until his thoughts were more wolf than kin. Blood on his pelt, lost in the orange markings and brown mud. A prince of hunters. Far from the charming, well-tended kin he seemed to be.
Above an owl hooted, creatures scurried in the brush. He sniffed, he listened. Someone was close.
Not prey.
A fellow predator.
