He wasn’t sure why he’d come back. There was nothing left for him in the lands of Lore. His mother was dead, slain by the mountain. His father, as far as he was concerned, was dead. He’d disappeared when Arion had been a cub—no explanations or apologies. The cubs he had grown up with—Nalda, Sahalie, Ember, Bracken—would likely look at him with disdain for vanishing (like his father). If they were still around, as it was possible that they, too, had left the Lore. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth as he meandered through the trees, his head hanging low as he avoided the packs in the area. He wasn’t interested in setting down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been part of a pack. Small groups, here and there, but the smudge had kept to himself.

It had been a lonely year.

His paws crunched against the frozen ground as he continued toward the sound of falling water. He had never been on this side of the mountain before. His pale blue orbs narrowed as he studied the mountain in the distance. Arion didn’t know if he wanted to scale the rock just yet—or ever. He feared he would run into a familiar face on the other side and the boy did not know if he was ready for that. The yelling. The accusations. He was happy being on his own.

Upon arriving at the falls the boy planted his hindquarters at the water’s edge, a scowl still present across his dark features.

What was next?