She hadn’t exactly been gentle with him—but far less severe than what the young man, the cub, might rightfully have earned. Each time she referred to him as a child, each time she pressed on his status as merely a boy, the lad’s black ears folded to either side of his head, as though her words came crashing down, heavy and inescapable, atop his skull.

Yet he was not one to wallow, to brood, or to grumble. The wild lady was offering him a chance—a chance to prove that he was indeed a man, and that a mere pair of balls between his legs did not suffice to make one. That chance, he would seize without hesitation.

Cocky, he had fallen in step behind the snowy owl lady, a mischievous gleam flickering in his eye. His pride had been struck squarely, and like many bold and brash young cubs, he had walked straight into the snare of words.

Lady snowy owl, best be ready to call me sir! he declared, still radiant with confidence, his tongue moving far swifter than his feet. He still moved like a wolf pup, constantly alert for the slightest cue from the adults that might remind him of his place. But, as with all the young, he tested the boundaries—he boasted, he strutted, he performed.

Yet group hunting was another matter entirely. He was unprepared for it. All he recalled of the art of coordinated tracking were the dull lessons from his mother and the long-winded teachings of the tribe’s elders.

So, what will it be for you, my lady? A haunch of venison? A fine squirrel assortment? Perhaps a bit of boar tripe? he teased with a grin, already reciting the menu with amused arrogance.