Prologue
Mulch crunched under a grey wolf’s paws. He was only a dark silhouette, hidden by the shade in the setting sun. The strong stench of fox made him stop and raise his head.
A small shape, much like a canine’s, stepped out of the shadows. It was a black fox. His eyes gleamed a fiery amber and he stood confidently in front of the grey wolf.
“Run along, rogue,” the grey wolf growled. He bared his teeth menacingly. “This territory belongs to wolves.”
The black fox dipped his head and squeaked, “Dear omega wolf, I’ve seen how your packmates treat you and have come to make a deal with you. My name is Reynard, leader of the black foxes.”
The grey wolf was amused by Reynard’s respect and sat on his haunches. “The name’s Dusktail,” he muttered. “What is it you would like to deal with?”
“If you help me drive out your, quote on quote, ‘packmates’ out of their territory, then I shall give you power and every canine in the forest shall bow down to you,” Reynard growled malicely.
“Does that include you?” Dusktail rumbled.
Reynard squinted at Dusktil and lifted his chin with a grim expression. “No, but me and the other black foxes shall leave you in peace.”
Dusktail looked down at his paws to think. His tail twitched with anticipation for power. For the bloodshed he craved. He wanted to lick the blood of his dead packmates and show that he wasn’t a naive, weak and worthless omega wolf; despite his boney frame. Dusktail looked up.
“It is a deal then,” he growled. He looked into Reynard’s pleased amber eyes with a sinister expression. “I will make sure that those wolves get out and stay out of your territory, Reynard.”
The full moon was a bloody red. A black she-wolf with white tufts of fur sat anxiously by a tree with white glittering leaves. The sound of dead leaves being crunched underpaw made her turn around.
“Whitespot,” the black she-wolf whined in a silky voice.
“Tonight is no ordinary night, Nightalpha,” Whitespot, who had white tufts of fur on her face, rasped. The old she-wolf sat noisily near Nightalpha.
“What does the red moon mean?” Nightalpha asked anxiously. “As healer of Midnightpack, you must’ve received a message from the spirits of the afterworld. Haven’t you?”
“Needn’t worry, Nightalpha,” Whitespot sighed calmly. “I came here to tell you I woke up from a message the spirits of the afterworld sent to me. If they hadn’t, I would still be in my den where my old bones have been for many moons.”
Nightalpha suppressed a whine and gulped. “What did the spirits say?” she queried.
“‘Darkness shall take action, and when light comes, it must be accepted or all will be lost…’” Whitespot repeated the words from her dream.
A growl vibrated in Nightalpha’s throat. “But what does that mean?” Her voice was scathing. “I can’t decode everything in the most stressful of times.”
“I’m sure things will settle down by the time fresh-tree is in full bloom,” Whitespot rasped. She stretched her stiff joints and got to her paws. “Focus on the present, Nightalpha, and worry about the future when it comes.”
