FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 6: Sartren's Temple

The streets were alive, humming with the warm breath of summer, the scent of fresh bread and crushed lavender carried on the breeze. Axton's thoughts still lingered upon the gryphon that flirted with him, offered a night of entertainment and maybe something more. He shook his head, mind scattered to the winds, hating the moment, his cowardice, mostly himself. He took refuge in a quiet alcove to collect his thoughts, taking deep, composing breaths to still his racing heart.

Then, like a force of nature, Roran Blackclaw had appeared.

Towering above the gathering, the anthropomorphic wolven stood, his broad, muscular frame encased in ceremonial armor of dark steel inlaid with silver filigree, each intricate design whispering of duty, lineage, wars fought and won. His fur, onyx in its primary, lined with shades of white and grey was thick and wild. He had a mane that was woven into battle braids that rested along his shoulders, shadow and light a silent testament to past victories, each strand a lesson learned in blood and fire to the moon goddess he revered. His icy blue eyes, keen as a hawk's and steady as the mountain's roots, swept across the gathered crowd with the weight of a warrior who understood his own presence. The flick of an ear, the shift of his stance, even the measured rise and fall of his breath, everything about him spoke of an unshakable confidence, not born of arrogance, but of certainty.

Roran Blackclaw did not hesitate. He never had, and he never would.

He moved through the crowd with the effortless grace of a seasoned predator, each step carrying the ease of instinct honed by years of discipline. People shifted out of his path without conscious thought, their own bodies acknowledging what their minds had yet to process, Roran was a force unto himself, something raw, something undeniable. He was the surge of the tide, the crash of thunder, the steady, unrelenting presence of the night's guardian.

Spotting Axton near the alcove where the clamor of the city softened, Roran approached, his step firm, his presence unshakable. Without hesitation, he clapped a strong hand upon Axton's shoulder, a gesture at once grounding and unyielding.

“Trying to pull me off on another one of your quests?" Axton had asked casually. “What is it this time Roran, large rats, goblins?" He rolled his eyes to his friend, finding amusement in the wolven's gaze.

Roran's tail flicked behind him as he barked a laugh, his grin as irrepressible as ever. “Not this time my oldest friend! Did I mention it was good to see you! It's as though Fureen herself wants me to succeed. I, uh—" he coughed into his fist, suddenly sheepish, which was something Axton had not seen often, “—hope you're not busy tonight. Because I need a witness. A really good one, like, the best. I thought heh…" He coughed, composing himself, ears soon splayed, “And I wanted it to be you."

The shift in tone caught Axton off guard. “A witness? To what?"

Roran's grin widened, his confidence never faltering. “What? Did I forget to tell you? Tonight's kind of a big deal. My ascension into the Moonguard and all that, a Fang rank can you believe it? Super important. And, well—" He gave a casual shrug, but there was a rare sincerity beneath it, “—I was thinking, who better to stand with me than you? You know, for moral support. Plus, you've got that serious, broody look that'll make me seem extra important."

The weight of those words settled over Axton, grounding him in something deeper than duty, deeper than friendship. There was no jest in Roran's eyes, not in the way they held him, nor in the way he offered his trust so freely. Axton swallowed past the unexpected tightness in his throat and gave a small nod. There was only ever one answer, how could he let him down?

** * * * * * * * * **

The Moon shrine of Entis stood solemn and proud beneath the endless heavens, a sentinel of alabaster stone carved by hands who have long since turned to dust. Its towering spires stretched skyward, etched with the delicate, flowing script of prayers once murmured in reverence beneath silvered moonlight. Bathed in the cold radiance of the stars, the shrine's intricate carvings shimmered as though touched by the divine, their sacred symbols dedicated to Sartren, the Star born Guide, the goddess of the moons, stars, and the vast and unyielding pursuit of knowledge.

The air, crisp with the mingled scents of pine and dampened earth, carried the lingering traces of incense, a ghostly echo of rites performed in the hush of prior nights. Chimes, strung delicately between the shrine's towering oaks, whispered in the wind, their hushed notes a hymn to the celestial watcher above. Gathered in the clearing, their armor catching the pale gleam of moonlight, stood the assembled knights, both wolven and human alike, silent and unmoving as the stones beneath their feet, watching as the sacred ceremony unfolded.

Axton stood alongside Pyretalon, who had returned from his secret plotting with Lyra. He was watching as Roran stepped forward, facing off against the leader of his order with an aura of unshakable confidence. The air was thick with unspoken oaths, with quiet reverence, with the weight of something ancient.

Around them, wolven and human knights alike stood shoulder to shoulder, bound not by blood, but by something far greater. The humans bore the marks of the Wolven, sigils carved into their armor—a silent testament to their shared cause, a brotherhood forged in scars and tempered in steel. They bore witness to a rite as old as the order itself, the ascension of a warrior, a packmate, to the next rank of devotion and duty.

Roran, knelt before the ancient altar at the shrine's heart. His dark cloak pooled behind him like the wings of a great hawk resting before the wind's call.

Before him stood the Wolven High Templar, a towering female of sleek silver fur, her piercing amber eyes unwavering over the dominion of the sacred ground. Her presence was a storm contained, quiet and still, yet all the more powerful for its restraint. The moonlight caught the edges of her fur, turning her into something almost ethereal, something woven from the very fabric of the night itself.

In her clawed hands rested the hilt of a sword older than the names spoken beneath this sky. Its steel shimmered, not merely with the sharpness of its edge, but with the enchantments woven through it by generations long past. It gleamed as if kissed by the celestial light of Sartren herself, waiting for the moment it would taste the blood of the one who knelt before her.

The High Templar raised her sword, its polished steel gleaming as it caught the pale glow of the moon. She lifted it high, the blade aimed toward the heavens, and when she spoke, her voice carried like rolling thunder, unwavering, unshaken. “Are there any among his pack who stand here to bear witness to his oath?"

Roran lifted his chin, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. His voice, when it came, was steady, firm, yet behind it was an ever-present glint of excitement lurking in his eyes. He turned slightly, his gaze settling on Axton with a knowing smirk, the kind that made it clear he saw this as more than just a formality.

“I do, and he is among us at this very moment. Axton Turnvoth."

The High Templar's gaze locked onto Axton, her golden eyes unwavering, searching. He felt the weight of it, not merely as a question, but as judgment. Roran had chosen him for this moment, and there was no turning away.

She returned her focus to Roran, her voice steady, resolute. “Do you vow to stand as shield and sword, to safeguard the helpless, to walk with honor and without falter, to uphold the will of Sartren and never stray from the path of justice?"

Roran bowed his head, his voice carrying across the glade with the strength of conviction. “By the light of Sartren, I vow it. In shadow and light, in peace and war, I shall be the shield to the weak and the blade to the wicked. My honor shall not waver, nor shall my soul be weighed by falsehood or fear. As long as I draw breath, my oath shall guide me."

The High Templar stepped forward, placing a clawed hand atop Roran's head, her touch light but commanding, a seal upon the words he had spoken. When she spoke, it was not just for the assembled warriors, but for something greater, something beyond. “Then rise, Roran Blackclaw, Fang of the Moonguard. May your path forever be guided by the light of our Lady."

As Roran straightened, there was no mistaking the shift in the air. The weight of the ceremony settled into silence, charged with the unspoken anticipation of what was to come. The High Templar studied him a moment longer before taking a measured step back, her golden gaze gleaming beneath the celestial glow.

"However," she continued, voice clear, carrying through the sacred space, "before the mantle of your new station can rest upon your shoulders, you must prove your worth in battle."

A ripple passed through the gathered warriors, and from their ranks, a figure emerged. He was a veteran knight, clad in armor that bore the marks of long service, his steel worn but well-kept, etched with the silent echoes of past victories. He moved with the measured ease of one who had nothing to prove, only a duty to fulfill. His dark hair, streaked with silver, caught the moonlight as he stepped forward, his expression impassive, but not unkind.

The assembled knights parted to form a ring.

Axton, standing rigid at the edge, felt the tension thrumming through his limbs. He knew Roran was formidable, a warrior whose skill had been honed through years of relentless discipline. But this was not some reckless combatant. This was something else entirely. A seasoned opponent. One who had long since abandoned wasted movement, who had no need for brute force when wisdom and patience were the sharper weapons.

Roran, undeterred, rolled his shoulders, the motion loose, easy, as though he were about to spar on a lazy afternoon. His toothy grin flashed under the moonlight, confidence radiating from him like the heat of a forge. “Hope you've had a good meal, old man. I won't go easy."

A wry smile nearly touched the veteran knight's eyes as he drew his blade with a smooth, practiced motion. “Nor should you."

The High Templar lifted her clawed hand, cutting through the tension in the air like a blade through silk. “Begin."

Steel clashed with a ringing cry, a sound that sent a tremor through the gathered warriors. Roran moved first, surging forward, his blade carving a deadly arc, but the knight was already shifting, sidestepping the blow with effortless precision. The parry was controlled, deliberate, not merely defense, but a lesson, one carved into the very movement of his blade. His counterstrike flashed under the moonlight, and Roran barely pivoted in time, the keen edge grazing his armor with a sharp metallic hiss.

This was not a reckless exchange of blows. It was a master guiding a student, whether the student realized it or not. Roran fought with all the might of a warrior forged through battle and relentless training, but the knight moved with the fluidity of one who had danced this dance a thousand times before.

Roran struck again, feinting left, then right, before committing to a downward slash meant to break his opponent's guard. The veteran read the movement effortlessly, stepping into the strike at the last moment. A foot hooked behind Roran's own in a precise sweep, throwing him off balance just long enough for the knight's blade to slip past his defense. The flat of the sword struck against Roran's ribs with enough force to stagger him, sending pain lancing through his side. He gritted his teeth, feet scraping against the stone as he fought to steady himself.

The crowd watched, breathless, as Roran dug in, refusing to fall.

Again, he came at the knight, faster, his strikes relentless. But the veteran met each one with that same infuriating ease, turning them aside like an instructor humbling an overeager student. And then—an opening.

A twist of the knight's wrist. A shift in footing so subtle it was nearly imperceptible. A final strike catching Roran's blade at the precise angle needed to wrench it from his grasp. The weapon spun through the air, clattering against the stone.

Roran dropped to one knee, his breath coming in hard, measured gasps. His arms trembled from exertion, his fingers flexing as though longing for the hilt of his lost blade. The silence stretched over the clearing, the weight of his failure settled upon him like a second skin.

Then, the knight stepped forward and extended his hand. “Rise."

For a moment, Roran hesitated, not out of shame, but out of understanding. This was not defeat. This was the lesson, the final stroke of the blade that tempered him into something stronger.

His grip was firm as he clasped the knight's hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. A slow grin curled across his face, not with arrogance, but of something deeper.

The High Templar strode forward, her golden eyes glinting with the light of Sartren herself. “Strength is not in victory alone, but in resilience. You have fought well, and though you fell, you did not yield. That is the mark of the Moonguard."

From the folds of her ceremonial robes, she produced a small, intricately carved emblem—an ancient sigil of the Moonguard Order, shaped like a silver fang entwined with a golden thread. With a deliberate motion, she fastened it to Roran's armor.

“You have walked the trial of blade and spirit. You have knelt in humility, stood in defiance, and risen in resilience. In battle, you have learned that the measure of a knight is not in victory alone, but in the courage to rise again."

The silence that followed was thick with meaning, as if the very world held its breath. The assembled warriors—Wolven and human alike—stood poised at the edge of something vast, something ancient and unbreakable.

Then, like the first rumble of a storm rolling across the mountains, a single howl split the air. It rose raw and unrestrained, a call of triumph, of unity, of recognition. Another voice joined, then another, until the entire clearing trembled with the force of it.

A heartbeat later, the humans answered.

Fists struck armor, swords rattled against shields, boots pounded against the earth in unison. The sound was thunder, relentless and absolute, a symphony of strength, of unshaken brotherhood. And through that rising tide of voices, a single chant took shape—deep, rhythmic, commanding.

“Ro-ran! Ro-ran! Ro-ran!"

His name crashed through the night like a wave upon the shore, powerful, unwavering, real.

Roran stood amidst it, the firelight catching the gleam of sweat upon his brow, the bruises forming beneath his armor, the heaving of his chest as he took in the moment, as he owned it.

This was no hollow praise, no empty gesture of celebration. It was a rite of acceptance, of belonging. He had fought, he had fallen, but he had risen. That, in the end, was what mattered.

He turned his head, scanning the crowd, his icy blue gaze seeking something beyond the revelry. His friend, Axton, standing just beyond the ring of knights, watching in silence. Their eyes met, and in that single moment, something unspoken passed between them.

A triumph beyond battle, beyond ceremony.

Roran's grin spread wide, wolfish and fierce, unrestrained, the glint of undeniable victory in his eyes.

The chanting only grew louder, the voices of his brothers-in-arms shaking the very ground beneath him.

** * * * * * * * *

The celebration had spilled beyond the sacred walls of the shrine, its pulse of revelry weaving into the night like the steady hum of a heartbeat. The grove beyond was alive with flickering firelight, its golden fingers stretching long and fluid across the moss-laden earth. Lanterns of enchanted glass, suspended from the lower branches, bathed the clearing in a soft, silver-blue radiance, casting an otherworldly shimmer upon the gathering below. Their glow mimicked the pale, watchful gaze of Sartren's moon, a celestial witness to the feasting and laughter carried upon the wind.

The air was thick with the heady aroma of roasted meat, the rich tang of spiced ale, and the sharp bite of pine, all mingling beneath the deeper undertones of damp bark and trampled earth. Voices rumbled like distant thunder, rolling over one another in a cadence only warriors knew, a sound shaped by long campaigns, by the weight of steel and the sharp thrill of survival. The deep, resonant howls of Wolven split the night, reverberating through the trees like an ancestral call, answered by the rhythmic clatter of tankards against wood and the occasional roar of laughter when someone, undoubtedly, spun an embellished tale of their own exploits. Somewhere, a handful of voices had taken up an old drinking song, their notes rough-edged and uneven, yet carrying the full weight of victory and kinship.

The night pulsed with belonging.

At one of the long wooden tables, Axton sat stiffly, his hands resting against the edge of the bench as though uncertain of their purpose, his food untouched, his expression drawn tight with unspoken thought. Across from him, Roran lounged in the way only a man utterly at ease could, his confidence a lived-in thing, as if he were a king of warriors sitting upon a throne of firelight and camaraderie. He was stripped of his armor, now only in simple grey trousers and a dark navy tunic, exposing his furred, muscled black chest. He tore into his meal with the easy, unapologetic appetite of his kind, his tail flicking lazily behind him, his ears occasionally twitching at the conversations weaving around him.

Between them, the table was heavy with offerings fit for Sartren's faithful. There were bowls of moon-grain stew, thick with the slow-simmered remnants of roasted root vegetables and spiced lamb, sent gentle plumes of steam curling into the cool night air. Its scent was warm, a familiar offering of tradition, of hearth and steel, a staple among warriors who honored their goddess with full bellies and unyielding hearts. Beside it, clay pitchers of Starbrew Mead sat within easy reach, their contents shimmering faintly under the lanternlight. The pale liquid, a delicate blend of honey, elderflower, and fermented silverberries, was not merely a drink but a sacred indulgence, a toast to the bonds forged beneath Sartren's watchful gaze, a quiet promise shared among those who had bled for one another.

Tonight, it was not just food. Not just drink.

It was a ritual. A celebration of burdens set down, of blood spilled and victories seized, of a kinship unbroken by time or distance. It was the kind of night men and women carried in their bones long after the fire had dimmed, a night that settled deep and became part of the stories they would tell.

And yet, at this table of feasting and laughter, Axton sat unmoving, untouched by it all.

This was a night of victory. Of revelry. Of warriors who had carved their names into the marrow of the world. He was none of those things. He had carved nothing. Had earned nothing. He sat among them, surrounded by those who had seized life by the throat and made it their own, while he drifted, rudderless, drawn further into the current, farther from any shore he could name. The warmth of the fire could not reach him. The weight of his failures pressed against his chest, dragging him under.

Then there was that random gryphon he ran into today; he was charming and yet Axton let himself become consumed with insecurity.

What if he had stepped forward? Accepted the invitation? What if it was a start that led to something he didn't fully understand but longed for anyway? Would it have been so terrible? Would it have been a mistake to take up the invitation from a random stranger he had just met?

Or would it have been something more? Now he would never know.

His gaze flicked toward the gryphon seated beside him, watching as Pyretalon tore into his food with effortless confidence, tail flicking in lazy, idle motions, utterly at home in his own feathers. The firelight caught in the golden depths of his eyes, traced the sharp, predatory angles of his beak, casting him in the kind of radiance that was almost unfair, the kind of presence that made Axton's heart ache with the sheer certainty of it.

Pyretalon was everything Axton was not.

Unshaken. Unflinching. Certain in himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound to him and unable to fly free because of his failures.

If Pyretalon weren't stuck at his side, where would he be? Surely not here. He would be somewhere greater, somewhere deserving of his strength and cunning, a legend unto himself. Instead, he was watching over a man too weak to even reach out for what he wanted.

Axton clenched his fists beneath the table, shame curling in his stomach like something sharp-edged and bitter. He had no right to want anything from him. No right to imagine Pyretalon looking at him with something other than duty. No right to hope for something he had never spoken aloud.

Pyretalon deserved better.

The thought pressed against his chest, heavy as stone, the weight of it crushing.

Then there was the duel.

The moment meant to prove himself. To show Nivra that her training had not been wasted, that he was worthy of her lessons, of her guidance, of the faith she had placed in him.

And when the time came, when the challenge was before him—

He hesitated. He lost.

That truth settled deep, an immovable weight in the pit of his stomach. The moment played again and again behind his eyes, unrelenting, each detail carved into memory like a blade scoring stone. Nivra's expression had not been one of anger, nor scorn, it was worse. Disappointment, quiet and absolute. Shame, not his, but hers. Pity.

Just another mark upon the long list of his failures. Another proof of her folly in choosing him.

And now, here he sat among warriors who had proven their worth, men and beasts who had met their trials with unshaken resolve, who had bled and fought and stood unyielding in the face of the world's cruelty. They belonged here. The revelry, the victory, the weight of their camaraderie, it was something tangible, something real. And he was a ghost among them.

The world had moved forward without him, and he didn't know how to catch up.

His fingers curled against the wood of the table, nails pressing into the grain. The night pulsed around him full of life, full of certainty, yet it was as though he watched through glass, separated by something he could not name, something he could not reach through. And he feared, truly feared, that he would never be able to become more than all he was now.

A sharp voice cut through the air, snapping the tension like a blade drawn clean from its sheath.

“Well, look at you. Fang now, huh?"

A burly knight dropped onto the bench across from Roran, reaching for a thick slice of bread without ceremony. His grin was broad, half-hidden behind the rough stubble of his jaw, the easy camaraderie of an old friend.

Roran barely spared him a glance, still chewing, his posture relaxed in a way that made it clear he had nothing to prove.

“Guess that makes you important now. Gotta act all wise, give speeches. Maybe even, gods forbid, learn how to read properly."

Snorting, Roran swallowed his mouthful, reaching for his drink. “Drennar… how many times must I say this? I can read, you ass."

Drennar raised a brow, unconvinced. “Oh yeah? What's written on the runes of that flask over there?"

Grinning, Roran picked it up, squinting at the symbols. “Uh… 'For Honorable Warriors.' See? Take that, Drennar."

His opponent's smirk widened. “That says 'Drink sparingly, strong as a bear's ass.'"

Roran's expression didn't even shift. “Well, who writes that on a flask?" He set it down with a grunt, reaching for another bite.

Before Drennar could respond, a sleek-furred Wolven flopped onto the bench beside him, nudging his ribs with her elbow. Kaelith, a warrior as sharp as her tongue, the glint of amusement already dancing in her silver eyes.

“You know, pup," she drawled, stretching her limbs like a satisfied predator, “you're making the rest of us look bad, standing up there like some kind of legend in the making."

Roran wiped his mouth, flashing a toothy grin. “Pup? Shut your muzzle, Kaelith. I'm taller than you."

Unbothered, she reached across his plate, snagging a slab of meat, chewing thoughtfully. “Yeah, and you still haven't bested me in a fight yet, Pup."

A fork leveled at her. “Oh, it's coming."

The banter carried on, laughter rolling through the table like a tide, warriors coming and going, slapping Roran on the back, offering both congratulations and playful challenges.

Then, between bites, Garron, a broad-shouldered Wolven with dark fur and a more serious air, spoke up. “So, Roran," he mused, tearing into his own meal, “if you ever take that fancy new rank home, does that mean your pack will want to test you?"

A bite of food paused mid-air. Roran blinked, considered, then resumed chewing. “Oh yeah. Probably."

Garron hummed. “Brutal process. They still doing the whole Trial of Endurance?"

“Mmhmm," Roran nodded. “And the Gauntlet of the Elders."

Drennar, mid-drink, choked. “What?"

Shrugging, Roran reached for his ale. “It's not that bad."

Kaelith snorted. “You had to fight six warriors in a row last time."

“Okay, yeah, that sucked a little."

Drennar leaned forward, intrigued. “What's the Gauntlet of the Elders?"

A vague gesture. “Oh, it's just a minor trial. You gotta run through a snowstorm while being chased, then wrestle a few of the old warriors, do some bloodletting, survive the night in the frozen wilds, and make it back before dawn. You know, regular stuff."

Drennar stared. “Regular. Right."

Kaelith chuckled. “And you know what that means, right?"

Axton tensed slightly as Kaelith's grin widened. “If you ever visit, your pack might make Axton do it too."

A fork clattered against the plate. “Excuse me?"

Roran nodded, as if only now realizing this. “Yeah. That's probably true."

“They'll make me do what?"

A shrug. “Well, you'll be a guest, but also an outsider. They'd want to see if you're worthy of standing with us. Of course, I'd vouch for you, but still—"

Axton ran a hand over his face. “You're joking."

“Nope." Another bite. “Oh, also, there's a part where they strip you down and paint you with runes made of wolfsbane, but only if the Elders really like you."

A sharp cackle broke the air, Pyretalon's wings shifting as he leaned back, talons tapping against the wood. “Oh, I like this."

Axton groaned.

Roran grinned, unbothered by the sheer distress unraveling across Axton's face. “Don't worry. I'll train you."

Axton exhaled sharply. “Roran, that's not—"

“No, no, I get it." Roran nodded sagely, as if the problem had already unraveled itself within his mind. “You're worried about your body. Don't worry, I can fix that."

His brow twitched. “What."

A fork gestured vaguely in his direction, entirely too serious for Axton's liking. “No, I see the issue. You're feeling inadequate. You just need strength training, better endurance, maybe some agility drills—"

Horrified, Axton stared, unable to do anything but listen to this slow-motion disaster unfold before him. “That is not—"

“—and diet's a big one. You should eat way more meat. You don't eat enough meat, I can tell. Also, your posture's kind of bad—"

Palms pressed against his face, fingers dragging down in slow agony. “Roran, that is NOT the problem."

For a moment, Roran simply chewed his food, brow slightly furrowed in deep contemplation. Then, something clicked, and his face brightened.

“Ohhh. I get it now."

Axton's stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Roran leaned in, grinning. “You were staring at me."

Axton choked on air. “EXCUSE ME?!"

A nod, utterly certain. “I mean, it makes sense. You're sitting there, all quiet, brooding, sneaking glances. I have to say, if you wanted me, you could've just asked."

A full-body groan of suffering escaped as Axton buried his face in his hands. “Oh gods, no—"

Roran chuckled, setting down his drink, completely unfazed. “Okay, so before this goes any further, let's get this out of the way—"

“Don't say it—"

“—my cock? Exceptional."

Axton let out an unholy noise, a strangled mix between a wheeze and a dying man's last breath.

Roran held up a finger, as if imparting sacred wisdom. “AND my knot? Huge. But don't worry! If we work together, I can get it in you." He flashed a reassuring, brotherly smile. “We just need to train a little. If we work on this, soon you'll be singing to Sartren herself."

“I was not thinking about that Roran!"

A pause. A thoughtful tilt of the head. “Oh." Muzzle scrunching slightly, ears flicking as the gears visibly turned. “So, like… were you picturing someone else doing that to you, or—?"

Beet red from embarrassment Axton could barely control himself.

“I wasn't picturing that at all you mutt!" Although now, to his utter horror, he couldn't get it out of his head.

Across the table, Pyretalon lost it.

A sharp, wicked cackle split the air, the gryphon tossing his head back, feathers ruffling as laughter ripped through him. One talon braced against the table as if he might fall over.

“Oh gods," Pyretalon wheezed between peals of laughter, “Do you always assume your friends want to fuck you, or is this just a special occasion?"

Roran huffed, crossing his arms. “I was being serious."

That just made it worse.

Pyretalon wiped at his eyes, still grinning, still riding the high of Axton's absolute destruction. “So, you do picture fucking your friends, then?"

Roran blinked, utterly unbothered. “Yeah?" As if that were the strangest part of the conversation. “Back in my pack, this was normal. Strengthens bonds, builds unity."

A fork clinked against a plate, as Axton's last vestiges of sanity fractured. “Unity. By fucking."

Another earnest nod. “Yeah. You think you know someone, but you don't really know them until you've rolled in the snow together a few times. After that? The trust? Unshakable."

Axton was at a loss for words.

Pyretalon, still grinning, picked up another piece of meat. “Maybe Wolven and Gryphons aren't so different after all."

Axton muttered something incomprehensible, already rising from his seat. “I need to go reevaluate my entire life."

His chair scraped harshly against the wooden platform as he pushed back, the sound sharp against the night air. Without another word, he turned and stormed off, silver lantern-light casting long shadows behind him.

Roran watched him go, chewing thoughtfully, swallowing another bite. An ear flicked before shrugging.

“He'll be back."

** * * * * * * *

Axton stormed through the undergrowth, frustration tightening around his chest like a vice. The night air carried the distant pulse of the celebration with firelights flickering through the trees, voices rising and falling in familiar, careless revelry, but it might as well have been happening in another world. The laughter, the camaraderie, the effortless way others that belonged there, it was a cruel reminder that they had found their place, their purpose, while he... he was still grasping at shadows.

He walked blindly, boots crunching against damp leaves, his thoughts snarled in the same maddening loop. His failures. His hesitation. His inability to just say yes. The duel, the memory of Nivra's gaze weighing heavier than any wound. That gryphon he ran into today, an opportunity lost before he even had the courage to reach for it. Pyretalon, always watching, always knowing, never speaking of it outright. And Roran, the walking, grinning disaster of a Wolven who managed to break through Axton's carefully built walls without even realizing he was doing it. His mind was a storm of doubt, and no amount of distance was enough to outrun it.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Unmistakable.

Axton sighed through his nose, not even bothering to turn. "Roran, I swear to Sartren, if you're here to tell me about my posture again."

"No, no, no." Roran's voice held an unfamiliar weight, lacking its usual lighthearted ease, which immediately set Axton on edge. "I mean, yeah, you should definitely stand straighter, but that's not why I'm here."

That got Axton's attention. He turned, arms crossing, his glare set, but the retort died on his tongue at the sight of the Wolven standing before him. Roran's ears twitched, his posture unusually restrained. No smug confidence, no easygoing grin. Just a man standing in the cool glow of lanternlight, his tail shifting restlessly behind him. And just beyond him, perched like some silent observer, Pyretalon crouched on a low branch, golden eyes gleaming, unreadable.

Roran exhaled through his nose; his usual nonchalance replaced with something that almost looked like hesitation. "Look, I came to apologize."

Axton blinked. This was new.

Roran rubbed the back of his neck, his effortless bravado tempered by something quieter, more thoughtful. "I think I made you upset. That wasn't my intention," he admitted, tail flicking behind him as if the admission itself was something he wasn't quite comfortable with. "You looked like something was wrong, so I figured I'd help. And I meant it when I said I could help. You're part of my pack now."

Axton opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. Something in the way Roran said it hit harder than expected.

Roran sighed again, rolling his shoulders, clearly not used to having to explain himself. "I mean, obviously, I still meant what I said—"

Axton groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Roran, no."

"I did!" Roran's ears perked forward, his tone completely sincere, which only made this worse. "But that doesn't mean I don't care about how you're feeling."

His tail flicked again, a subtle giveaway of frustration, though it was clear the annoyance wasn't directed at Axton himself, just the fact that this entire conversation was happening at all. "I just don't understand what's got you all twisted up. If it's not your body, and it's not you wanting to ride me, then what the hell is it?"

Axton made a sound no human should be capable of making, dragging both hands down his face in sheer agony.

Pyretalon, up until now a silent presence, let out a sharp, strangled sound that came off as part amusement, part disbelief.

Roran crossed his arms, watching Axton with the same steady patience he would give to an injured animal. "Look, I don't like seeing you like this. I want to fix it. But I'm no damn mage, and I'm not exactly known for being subtle. So, tell me straight, what's wrong?"

Axton hesitated.

Part of him wanted to shut down, to let the silence settle and refuse to speak. It would be easier, safer, to bury it all beneath the weight of his own self-loathing. But there was something about Roran that made Axton pause, his unwavering loyalty, his blunt honesty, his absolute refusal to let things go. The damn fool had followed him out here, away from the celebration, away from the warmth of the fire and the tankards raised in victory, just to check on him. That had to count for something.

His jaw clenched, the words sticking in his throat before they finally forced their way out. "I just... I feel like a failure, Roran. Everyone else, Pyretalon, you, you're all moving forward. But me?" A bitter laugh escaped, hollow and sharp. "I'm just stuck. I don't know where I belong."

Roran didn't answer immediately. For once, the Wolven wasn't rushing in with some half-thought quip or overly enthusiastic fix. Instead, he simply stood there, arms loose at his sides, tail shifting absently behind him. Then, finally, he sighed. “I understand how you feel Axton."

Axton's brows lifted slightly, caught off guard. "You do?"

A slow shrug. "Yeah. When I was a pup, I felt like I had to prove myself every damn day. There was always someone stronger, faster, smarter. I had to fight for my place. And guess what?" His teeth flashed in the dim light, the grin sharp, but not unkind. "It sucked."

Axton frowned, arms tightening across his chest. "So, what did you do?"

That grin widened, Wolven confidence settling over him like second nature. "I fought harder."

A long, suffering sigh slipped from Axton's lips, his head shaking before Roran even finished. "Of course you did."

Roran chuckled, nudging him with an elbow, unbothered by the skepticism. "Look, my point is you don't just find your place. You make it." The humor faded just enough to let something more serious take hold, the weight of experience settling behind those pale blue eyes. "You're not weak, Axton. You're just scared."

Before he could react, Roran's massive paw clamped onto his shoulder and hauled him straight into his chest.

A choked, startled sound escaped as Axton suddenly found himself face-first against the broad, furred expanse of Roran's torso. Warm, Gods, he was so warm. The thick coat smelled of pine and firewood, the deep, grounding scent of damp earth and musk, something so distinctly Roran that it made Axton's thoughts scramble.

His hands pushed instinctively, fingers battling against solid muscle beneath thick fur, it was like trying to move a damn mountain. Roran barely even budged.

A huff of laughter rumbled through the Wolven's chest. "See, packmates comfort each other, right? Just let it happen, bud."

Heat rushed up Axton's neck, a deep flush burning beneath his skin. "Roran. Let me go."

A dramatic sigh met his ears, but the arms around him finally loosened. "Fine. You're missing out though, I'm a great hugger."

Axton staggered back, putting as much distance between them as humanly possible, hands gripping at the edges of his cloak like it might somehow shield him from whatever the hell just happened. His entire body burned, and he was absolutely, unequivocally, never going to recover from this.

Roran smirked. "By the way. I saw that blush earlier."

Axton froze. "What?"

That grin widened. "I smelled it too."

Something in Axton snapped.

"Roran…"

The Wolven leaned in, voice dipping to something low and knowing, the kind of tone that sent alarm bells screaming in Axton's already overworked brain. "That was arousal, Axton."

Every muscle in his body locked up.

"And if you were thinking about me."

"I WASN'T!"

Roran's ears perked, a wicked gleam flashing behind those infuriatingly smug eyes. "Are you sure? Because I gotta say, I'd be flattered." His tail flicked, the picture of casual arrogance. "I'm really good at it, you know. Wouldn't want you to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime."

Axton was actively malfunctioning.

"Roran, shut up."

But the Wolven was on a damn mission now.

"No, no, I get it, you're nervous. That's okay." A confident gesture swept over his own massive frame, a display of pure, weaponized self-assurance. "Listen, you'd feel amazing. And my fur? An absolute cuddle perk. It's like being wrapped in a living, breathing comfort blanket. And then there's my stamina. Oh, and the size of my…"

A strangled squawk erupted from the branch above them, Pyretalon nearly tumbling off his perch. "Roran! Can you not control yourself for even a moment!?"

Roran blinked, ears flicking in mild confusion. "What?"

Pyretalon flapped wildly, tail lashing in sheer exasperation. "You don't just double down on it!"

Axton, now positively radiating heat, turned on his heel and stormed into the darkness. "I AM DONE!"

Roran sighed, watching him disappear into the trees, utterly unbothered.

Pyretalon dragged both talons down his face. "I hate you."

Roran stretched, grinning like a satisfied wolf. "No, you don't."

** * * * **

Axton stormed through the trees, his pulse roaring in his ears, heat burning under his skin, thoughts tangled beyond repair. Whether it was his failures or the fact that Roran had very publicly, very loudly offered to knot him, he wasn't sure which was worse. Gods, he had actually said it. And now? Now, he was running.

Not from an enemy. Not from danger. From the sheer, unbearable mortification. But from the smug, tooth-flashing grin that had made it so much worse. From the fact that Pyretalon had been right there, witnessing it all, savoring every second of his suffering like a fine wine.

Of course, running from a gryphon was pointless.

The rustle of wings overhead gave him just enough warning to swear before something slammed into him from behind, tackling him straight into the dirt. A startled noise strangled out of his throat, the air crushed from his lungs as fur and feathers pinned him beneath a far-too-pleased predator.

His face was in the dirt, again.

Laughter rang out above him, sharp and wicked. "There we go," Pyretalon crow, weight shifting just enough to make struggling impossible. "Knew you wouldn't outrun me."

A wheeze, rough and strangled. "Pyretalon, I swear to Sartren, if you do not get off me."

"You were running. I stopped you. It's what I do." The smug bastard shifted his weight, talons flexing against the earth in mock consideration. "If you didn't want to get pounced, you should've stayed put and faced your problems like a man."

A furious shove against the ground did nothing. "I was not running! I was leaving!"

Golden eyes gleamed, feathers ruffling slightly. "Uh-huh. In a way that looked exactly like running."

"I hate you."

A pleased chirp. "No, you don't."

With a lazy stretch, Pyretalon finally lifted himself off, allowing Axton to roll onto his back, panting, glaring, barely keeping from kicking him for good measure. The crisp night air did little to cool the heat still simmering under his skin, the humiliation from earlier refusing to fade.

Seated comfortably, the gryphon folded his wings, tail curling in the slow, calculated way of a creature enjoying himself far too much. "Alright, spill. Just how badly did Roran's little offer fluster you?"

A groan dragged from Axton's throat, fingers digging into his face. "You were right there. You heard it. Why are you asking?"

A smirk flickered across Pyretalon's beak, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "Because it's fun to watch you squirm."

A long, exhausted sigh.

Silence lingered only a moment before the teasing softened, a subtle shift in the air between them. Pyretalon ruffled his feathers slightly, his gaze sharp but not unkind. "That's not just what's got you upset, though, is it?"

The words hit something deeper than Axton wanted to admit.

A slow shift in weight, the barest flick of a tail. "Axton, be straight with me. Well, you don't have to be straight, but you know what I mean."

A strangled sound of absolute betrayal tore from Axton's throat. "Pyretalon."

The chuckle came low and warm, but the mischief dimmed, something quieter taking its place. "I saw your face when Roran said all that. It wasn't just embarrassment." His golden gaze narrowed slightly, the sharpness of it cutting far deeper than his words. "What's actually eating at you?"

A slow breath pressed past Axton's lips, his hands tightening into fists before he forced them to relax. Staring up at the stars, he let the words escape before he could swallow them back down.

"I feel like a failure."

Soft, but bitter.

Pyretalon neither interrupted nor pressed him for more, he just waited

Axton licked his lips, throat tightening. "Everyone around me, Roran, you, Nivra, you all seem to know where you're going. You're all moving forward. But myself?" A hollow laugh slipped out, lacking anything close to humor. "I'm just… stuck. Always watching from the sidelines. Never being able to do anything that matters."

The gryphon's tail curled slightly, his feathers smoothing down, his posture shifting ever so slightly as he listened.

"And then Roran." A groan, palms pressing against his face. "Then he had to go and say all that, and gods, Pyretalon, he smelled me."

Feathers fluffed instantly, wings twitching in suppressed laughter. "Oh, I know he did."

A withering glare. "You're not helping."

The laughter softened, but something thoughtful lingered behind it. A pause, talons flexing absently against the dirt before he finally spoke again. "You know, for someone who thinks he's worthless, you sure have a lot of people who don't agree with you."

Axton hesitated, watching him carefully from the corner of his eye.

"Roran? He thinks you're one of his own. Me?" Pyretalon's beak clicked softly. "I don't waste my time on people who don't matter. And Lyra?" He huffed, shaking out his feathers. "She actually likes you. Which is more than I can say for most people."

A scoff, short and quiet. "So, what, I'm supposed to believe in myself just because other people do?"

The gryphon's tail flicked, wings settling neatly at his sides. "No. But maybe you should at least consider the possibility that you're wrong about yourself."

A slow exhale, tension loosening in his shoulders, the weight on his chest not gone, but lighter.

For a moment, they simply sat in the quiet of the forest, the celebration nothing more than a distant murmur behind them.

Hesitant but curious, Axton finally turned his gaze toward the gryphon. "So, what exactly do you and Lyra have planned for tonight?"

Pyretalon froze.

For just a second, his ears twitched back, just slightly, his golden eyes widening before his expression immediately shifted into something unreadable. Tail flicked, this time more like a nervous tic than confidence. He hesitated.

Axton narrowed his eyes. "Pyretalon?"

The gryphon's beak opened slightly, as if he were about to say something important but then it clicked shut.

Finally with forced nonchalance, he said, "Okay, so. Don't be mad."

Axton's stomach dropped. "Oh no."

A smirk flickered. "Wow. That was fast. You don't even know what I'm about to say."

Arms folded instantly. "Because I know you, and anytime you say, 'don't be mad,' it means I absolutely should be mad."

A hum of consideration, head tilting in mock thoughtfulness. "Huh. Interesting observation. I should really find a new lead-in phrase."

Fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Pyretalon."

"Okay, okay, but before we get to that, let's circle back, because I feel like we glossed over a very important topic."

A pause followed by a sinking feeling. "Pyretalon, no."

"So," Pyretalon continued smoothly, golden eyes practically glowing, "how long have you been harboring this secret, unspoken fantasies about our dear, oblivious Roran?"

A sound of pure, suffering agony strangled its way out of Axton's throat.

A rush of feathers stirred the air as Pyretalon spread his wings slightly, his smirk deepening, golden eyes sharp with pure, malicious delight. "What? I think it's a fair question! You seemed very affected. Roran's a looker. Big. Strong. Great fur. Fantastic stamina, apparently. It would make sense if you've been picturing what he could—"

Axton lunged.

The smug bastard was already moving, wings flaring, claws scraping against the earth as he vaulted effortlessly out of reach. Laughter rang through the clearing, low and rich, each note only feeding Axton's fury.

"I WILL END YOU!" The words ripped from his throat, molten with rage, his face burning hotter than Sartren's own forge fires.

Twisting midair, Pyretalon landed with predatory grace, golden gaze alight with smug amusement. "Oh, come on, Axton! I'm trying to be supportive! What kind of friend would I be if I didn't make you confront your deepest, most shameful desires?"

"You are the worst!" Axton swiped at him again, but the damn gryphon danced just beyond his grasp, tail flicking like a taunt given form.

"Mm. No, I don't think so." A thoughtful tilt of the head. "Actually, I think I'm a very good friend, because I am validating your emotions."

A frustrated growl built in Axton's chest before he gave up entirely, shoving both hands through his hair, fists clenching at his scalp. Every part of him radiated suffering. "I hate my life."

Pyretalon finally settled himself, wings tucking neatly, paws crossing like a king at rest. "Fine, fine. I'll drop it."

Silence stretched just long enough to be suspicious.

"For now."

Axton glared daggers, but the gryphon merely flashed the most insufferable, self-satisfied smile imaginable. "But if you ever want a very detailed, highly experienced opinion on what Roran might be like in bed."

"NOPE." Boots turned sharply, carrying Axton as far away as possible.

Cackling followed him, each note dripping with unrepentant glee. "Aw, come on! I have theories!"

"NOT HAVING THIS CONVERSATION!"

Smugness clung to Pyretalon like a second skin, tail flicking, eyes glowing with undeniable satisfaction as he watched Axton fume.

Then, just before the moment could slip fully into mindless teasing, the air between them shifted.

"Hey, Axton?"

Still radiating fury, the mage barely spared him a glance. "What?!"

The humor dimmed, though the sharpness in Pyretalon's gaze remained.

"I meant what I said earlier."

That was enough to make Axton pause.

No flippant remark followed, no teasing smirk. Talons flexed against the dirt, weight shifting just slightly, as if the gryphon himself wasn't sure how much to say. "I don't waste my time on people who don't matter. And neither does Roran. You can keep telling yourself you're lost, but you've already been found. You just need to accept it."

Axton barely had time to register the words before something inside him snapped. The weight in his chest cracked, something raw and unbearable surging to the surface, and before he could stop himself, before he could think of all the reasons why he shouldn't, he moved.

His body lunged forward, his fists twisting into the thick, warm feathers of Pyretalon's chest as he crashed into him, burying himself against him before he could change his mind. It wasn't careful. It wasn't graceful. It was desperate, the kind of embrace that had nothing to do with thought and everything to do with need.

Strong, steady warmth wrapped around him before he could even process it. Pyretalon didn't hesitate, not for a second. Arms folded over him, wings tucking in close, his entire body curling around Axton like a shield. The hold wasn't crushing, wasn't forceful, just solid. Grounding.

A broken breath tore from Axton's throat as he clung tighter, face buried in thick fur that smelled of pine and wind and something so distinctly safe it sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was too late to hold it back. His body shook against Pyretalon's, a sharp sob catching in his throat, his entire frame trembling from the sheer force of it all coming undone.

A gentle coo hummed above him, a quiet, soothing sound, talons stroking slowly down his back. "There we go," Pyretalon murmured, voice soft, nothing teasing about it. "That's it. Let it out."

Axton sucked in a breath, but it shuddered on the way out. His fingers tightened against warm feathers, his body curling forward as he broke apart in the safety of Pyretalon's embrace. No words came, no explanations, just quiet, relieved sobs, ones he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in until now.

"You're alright." Pyretalon whispered, voice nothing but warmth and reassurance. "You're not alone, Axton. You never were." Feathers shifted slightly as Pyretalon held him tighter, claws slowly smoothing his body with steady strokes down his back. "Breathe," the gryphon coaxed, gentle, patient. "You're safe. Just breathe."

And he did. Slowly. Shakily. The tears slowed. The tightness in his chest eased. His body stopped trembling, the storm inside him settled into something quieter, something almost manageable. A long moment passed before Axton finally sniffed, rubbing a hand over his face as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. His voice came out rough, uneven. "I hate you."

Pyretalon chuckled, but there was nothing sharp in it, nothing mocking. "No, you don't."

A breath of a silent agreement passed between them, and for once, Axton didn't argue. Another moment stretched between them, then Pyretalon's tail flicked. The warmth was still there, still present, but a familiar edge crept back into his tone.

"Now then," the gryphon mused, weight shifting slightly, "back to my original point, and please don't be mad, but—"

A long, suffering groan scraped out of Axton's throat, pure exhaustion lacing every syllable. "This night just keeps getting worse."