Autumn had come to Wild Rye Fields, but unlike in the woods, or even his childhood in the southern mountains, it didn’t bring the slow death that was usually its mark. There was a distinct chill in the air, but the pine trees stood as tall as any tree bordering the tundra was able, in all of their evergreen glory, and the rye waved in the breeze, tall and golden, where it would remain until the first snows knocked it down. Truly the Fields wolves had picked their home well. Only the lone oak, over the communal den, had started to fade, reminding them all that winter was on its way. But already they were in a much better position than last year, with full caches and plenty of adults to keep them that way. Even with three pups to look after, the pack was well off, and their leader could hardly be more pleased.

The king was observing his lands from the ridge marking its eastern edge, resting his legs after a morning patrol. The rest of the pack was out and about too, he spotted a few of them out amongst the grain, beginning the day’s tasks around the territory. Somewhere he could hear high pitched voices barking in what sounded like an argument, making his eyes roll slightly, as he wondered what his sons were fighting over now. But at least that meant they were safe - part of him was still reeling from the episode with the cougar, and he thanked the stars that Askan had managed to save his son’s life, and escape with his own. It was damn lucky that their had only been minor injuries, and the alpha had increased his patrols along the southern border since, where before he had been more worried about the open sides, he now realized the danger of the forest.

But all was well in the end, and Drestig could draw a sigh of relief, thankful yet again for his pack mates. Only the heavens knew what would get thrown at them next.

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