The Dauntless limped away from the Foothills, and despite the defeat he walked with his head high. Even without his rank, Archibald was still mighty. Power in his family did not fall under the rulings of a herd, and he knew that. Mandrake’s pride in him would still ring with ferocity, and with or without the Foothills Archibald was still strong, able, and incredibly stable—mentally, at least for now. The limp rolled out because of the burns that licked his rump, their sister resting harshly on his neck. Archibald’s lips twitched in pain as he made his way to the deep forest—a place he knew all too well. He had already killed two horses here, Svetlana the Stormchaser and Roanne the Sentinel. He also knew that this is where the Grey resided, and in their outcast band must be a healer.
Stopping, Archibald let his head hang level with his shoulders. His golden pools gazed down at the water, the crimson-stained crystals calling to him. The trek had taken him much too long, and on his journey he watched as comet lit up the sky. Almost instantly with the bright burning rock, Loretta’s thoughts and feelings hit him like a brick through a storehouse window. Even in all of his pain and exhaustion, Archibald felt pure joy to be able to seamlessly communicate with his malamute once more. She stood beside him now, mentally whispering comforting nothings to him as she rested the side of her face on his strong left foreleg to show her support and love. Thank you, he said to her, and lowered his head, muscles screaming at him, and touched the top of her head with his soft white nose.
”I need a healer, Loretta,” The Dauntless spoke audibly this time, wincing with pain as he lifted his head to survey the area. He waited for someone to find him, following the stench of rotten and burnt skin.
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