He made haste in his trip south, barely stopping to rest or catch a quick drink of water. Guilt consumed him for not making the trip sooner, as he’d been feeling off for a few days before deciding to seek out his mother about making another trip south. The pair were no stranger to distance; they often went weeks without seeing each other. But this time the length between their visits had grown. Originally Cyril had blamed it on being busy with the formation of the Tarn, but something felt different. Wrong.
As usual the charcoal boy kept close to the mountains, as he had learned quickly that it was the fastest route down to the willows. It kept him at a safe distance from the other packs in the area (and away from the strange wolf he’d encountered once before). There were plenty of streams for him to stop at to replenish himself but he seldom stopped (if he did it wasn’t for long). He cursed the distance between their two packs as he moved, his legs growing tired as he continued south. But he refused to stop—not until he was within howling distance from the Ridge. Or his legs gave out beneath him, whichever came first.
Unfortunately for Cyril, the latter came first. He slumped to the ground at the base of the mountain, his chest heaving as he sprawled across the frozen ground. Snow was still piled in heaps around the strange cave but the sullen boy did not mind. He just needed to catch his breath before he carried on… he was so close…