If there was one thing Bero was bad at – there were many things, actually, though the boy had yet to discover the most of them – it was practicing his patience. He was a true-blue explorer, even at twenty-eight days of age. With his brother sleeping (at least, he assumed the pile of fluff further back in the den was sleeping), the second born Aethsila crept towards the mouth of the den. Today was different, though. The red wolf and the dark wolf were both missing, which meant there was no obstacle standing between him and the world outside his tiny little hole. And he might have gone more than a few steps outside, too, had a low growl not echoed through the thicket.
Blinking puppy blue eyes, the child paused, glancing around the opening. He could see no one – no big wolves, not his brother. But someone, or something, growled again, and his floppy ears twitched as he strained, still unable to detect the source of the sound. The third time it happened, Bero did his best to imitate the noise. It rumbled in his chest, in his throat – and came out no more than a tiny squeak. The cub bounced on all four paws and gave a second try, with no better results. He didn’t seem bothered.