Kon’ is not the quickest of the pups.

This is not for weakness: it is only for distracted, watchful eyes and ears, a mind easily drawn in by new colors and sounds. Textures appeal to him; he has taken to carrying sticks with him, gnawing them with new teeth and feeling the grooves they created with his tongue. It came less from comfort and more from compulsion, a need to express something latent in his spirit that he did not yet know how to say.

The red feather he found feels warm tucked into the fur of his nape. Warmer still in these sun-touched lands, and for a moment he misses the cool earth of north. He chides himself: to linger too long is not the Lanzadoii way.

He emerges from the undergrowth near his uncle, whose fur is red like his own. He means to announce himself, but is too taken by the sight of the ibis to speak. He stares at the vibrant plumage in wonder. Messengers of Ice Raven, his uncle said, and Kon’ cannot help but smile.

Ice Raven guides him still.