Nectar Dogg's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Nectar Dogg had one night to carve a wolf from stone, or he would stand before the pack's full moon council with empty hands. The council would name him an outsider, unfit to bond with the cub he loved. So he knelt by the fire with a chunk of green malachite and a dull knife, and his hands would not stop shaking. The cub watched from a flat rock nearby. His coat glowed neon green, his markings black as burned wood. He was small enough to fit in his two palms, but his blue eyes tracked every cut he made. Nectar wore a fuzzy green tail on his belt and ears on a headband, the pup’s gift to him, the sign that tied them together. He would not shame that tie by arriving with nothing. "I know," he told the pup. "A real suitor brings a treasure. I've got a rock and a bad knife." The cub yipped. Nectar felt his worry land in his chest like his own. That was his gift, reading feelings before words. Right now the feeling was clear: his pup believed in him, and he was terrified of failing his sweet cub. The first hour went wrong. The knife slipped and the stone cracked along one edge. Nectar swore and nearly threw it. Then he looked at the break. The green bands inside swirled like water, deep and alive. He had been fighting the stone. He stopped fighting. He followed the lines already there. He shaped the ears first, then the lifted muzzle. He carved the mouth open wide, a wolf caught mid-howl. His fingers bled. He kept going. Near dawn his boots were dusted white with stone powder, and the fire had burned to coals. He set the knife down. In his palm sat a small wolf of polished green, head raised, mouth open to the moon. The bands ran through it like rings in old wood. It was the finest thing his hands had ever made. The cub crept close and sniffed it. He pressed his nose to the carved muzzle, then to Nectar's bloody knuckles. His tail thumped the rock. Pride flooded him, warm and bright, and he knew it belonged to the cub, and so did he. "That's for the council," he said, voice rough. "Proof I'm yours." He wrapped the figure in cloth and held it to his heart. The first real trial was behind him. But holding the wolf, he felt a new weight settle. A carving proved his hands. It did not prove his voice, his hunt, or his scar. The council would want all three. Across the valley, a low howl rose and others answered. The sound rolled through the dark and did not stop. Nectar's skin prickled. The pack was awake, and they were calling. Soon they would call for him.