Howlpaw bristles, its fur ruffled as it stands in the quiet clearing. It doesn't like the softness in her voice, the way she speaks to it like she sees something it doesn't. Her words—I do not doubt you—ring hollow to its ears, the kind of reassurance that feels more like a leash than liberation. It doesn't need her approval. It doesn't need her to tell it what it already knows: it is skilled, sharp, and capable of surviving. And yet, the flicker of something else in her tone—an edge of belief—keeps it rooted to the spot instead of turning tail and stalking away. The clearing is too open, too quiet, and Howlpaw's eyes dart restlessly to the treeline. The wind whispers through the barren branches, and it can't help but think how easy it would be for something to emerge from the shadows. Its claws flex against the ground, digging into the cold soil as Tigerwing speaks again.
Calm in the face of battle. Her words grate against its ears. How is it supposed to stay calm when calm is what gets you killed? It has seen the price of stillness, of waiting too long. But it doesn't argue. It doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much her suggestion irritates it. Instead, its ears flatten as it stares her down, its golden eyes burning with defiance. "Close my eyes?" it scoffs, its voice rough. "What's that supposed to do—make me forget what's out there?" But she doesn't waver. Her green eyes are steady, unyielding, and Howlpaw growls softly in frustration. It doesn't want to do this. It doesn't trust this, doesn't trust the emptiness of the clearing. Still, something in the steadiness of her gaze presses against its pride. If it refuses, she'll see it as weak, and it refuses to be seen that way. Not by her. Not by anyone.
It exhales sharply through its nose and grudgingly closes its eyes, the darkness pressing in around it like a predator circling. Its breath catches, and for a moment, it feels like the world shifts. The rustle of the wind is louder now, the distant caw of a crow like a scream. Its heartbeat pounds in its ears, a frantic drumbeat that refuses to slow. Tigerwing's words echo in its mind. Imagine somewhere that makes you happy. Happy? Howlpaw clenches its jaw, its breathing quickening. It can't conjure the image. Its memories are jagged, fragmented—a tumble of pain and anger and fleeting moments of something softer that it can't hold onto. The darkness behind its eyelids tightens, suffocating, and a sharp spike of panic claws at its chest.
Its eyes snap open, wild and blazing, and it staggers back a step, teeth bared as it casts its gaze around, once, twice, three times, needing to be sure that no danger is approaching. "That's—stupid," it snaps, its voice trembling with more than just anger. "I don't need to—imagine anything. I need to see. I need to know what's coming." Its gaze flickers to her, its fur bristling, a storm of frustration and fear rolling through it. The vulnerability it has just shown feels unbearable, like an open wound, and it digs its claws into the ground again, desperate to anchor itself. "Don't ask me to do that again," it growls, its voice low and sharp. But beneath the anger, there's a tremor, a crack in its defenses that it can't quite conceal.
