Aly’s voice broke that quiet atmosphere I had going like a stray bullet through a wall of glass. Shattered. Her dragged out whine made to look like a joke or some attempt at a casual conversation starter. This was no joke though. None of it was. I don’t understand how anyone could approach this kind of situation with that attitude.
The cooking fire crackled, water simmering for the stew. I gritted my teeth while tossing my ready potatoes into it. That energy of a reckless teenage was like rubbing Styrofoam pieces together. Unnerving. I wondered if that girl was conscious enough of her actions to realize what she was actually doing. My focus stays on peeling the potatoes, trying to keep my patience in check.
“We’re not passing tonight,” I stated, voice steady but low as usual. “If you’d been paying attention to Wild Rose- really paying any attention- you’d remember that,” Continuing, I picked my words. Or tried to. Maybe my nerves were getting the better of me. “A Rite Of Passage isn’t some pop quiz you one and done, Aly. You have to prove you’re worthy of keeping. Physically, mentually- spiritually even. You can’t just be reflexes and muscles.” Maybe it wasn’t the same for everyone else. But if prospecting was something anything I could get an idea from- I could only imagine how horrible something like this for werewolves fighting a war of attrition against some cosmic force that had many faces and hands. My palm goes to my forehead. The thought alone was a weight heavier than any stone.
The silence that followed wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough. I focused on the stew again, the heat from the fire licking at my skin, the scent of the spices grounding me. In moments like this, the world narrowed to what was in front of me. Stirring, simmering, waiting.
The crunch of Wild Rose’s boots on the gravel wasn’t loud, but it carried. Each step was deliberate, purposeful, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable. She moved with the kind of confidence that didn’t need to announce itself, the kind that came from years of battles fought and wisdom earned. Her salt-and-pepper hair caught the flickering light of the fire, strands of silver gleaming like threads of a story half-told. She wasn’t imposing in stature, but there was weight to her presence, the unspoken promise that she could hold the world together if it started to crack.
“Jonathan. Aly,” she called, her voice cutting clean through the camp’s quiet murmur. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. Her words hung in the air, undeniable, like a gust of wind that shifted everything around it. “How’s the stew? If you’ve burnt it, you’ll be hunting and gathering until dawn to fix it.”
Wild Rose tilted her head toward the mess of firewood Aly had placed beside the fire. “Stack it properly,” she said, her tone like a blade drawn across stone—firm but not cruel. “If those logs roll into the fire, we’ll have more problems than burnt stew.”
Looking around, the mentor changed her tone while kneeling beside the two cubs. “How are you both feeling?” she asked, her tone shifting slightly. Still firm, but softer now. “Big night coming up. First step into the world as full Garou. It’s no small thing.”
