My words, my acknowledgement of Volterra's existence is nothing, caught up in the settled winds and forgotten. The syllables were a pointless waste, pushed from my lips coated in destruction and chaos— ignored. I shown no sign of the temper welling up (be glad I'm even speaking to you), feminine eyes unwavering against the red of Volterra's, standing up against him. "If he knows what he's doing, there will be no sympathy needed." And this is true, a man with knowledge and accuracy may not have to lose his fingers or his hands— he may not surface unscathed, but he will certainly emerge victorious. Because what is a wolf with no teeth? Vulnerable.

Soon, I promise him them— they will underestimate me, assume me weak and feeble with my height (standing beside titan brothers), but their ignorance (their confidence) will be their downfall. I will rise before them, strong and confident with power beneath taught brindled hide— I will strike them down where they stand, will prove just how foolish they were, that physical assets are not always a key necessity (a lesson Volterra needs to learn).

Volterra picks up on the serious nature of my demand (was it such?), slipping in with his own words. It's a long jumbled mess of him trying to apologize, interrupted momentarily for an unsettling laugh at the mention of the bruises along his body (from me) did little to dull the disgust rooted in my gut. And he is right. For months (months) this hatred, this foul dislike has buried itself into the roots of my bones, infected my veins with a bitterness nothing (that I know of) can cure. Perhaps I'll play along, pretend that yes, my hate has been weeded out and I love (ew) Volterra so— but all to gain his trust, his favour (his riches). No one ever said I had to play fair.

"If you're done," I finally get to talk (I thought he wasn't going to shut up), "I have some things to say. There isn't going to be any more of this." On the last word, I refer to myself (motioning with a ivory muzzle) and the broken relationship between us. It lays in tattered shards among our hooves (who shattered it? Did I? Did he? Who's to blame?), unsalvageable with how many pieces there are. That doesn't mean I wouldn't at least pretend that it was all there, that we had a normal father-son relationship. "You take care of your children now, you get to know each and every one of them. You make sure they're safe, that they have places to sleep and a suitable caretaker. You teach them things, how to fight, how to speak in a tongue none will understand, how to be something great." Even though he is nothing (not yet), I still add that last part in. "And if you cannot meet those expectations, cannot be present in the lives of your children, you either take up abstinence or pull out. Considering how many of us there are, the former might be a bit hard for you." The existence of so many from just one man proves that Volterra cannot keep it to himself, that he needs momentary relief. "You should still be pulling out, one man should not have so many children."

"I won't forgive you." I speak firmly, confident in my answer to his pitiful apology. He says he is a man who is rarely ever sorry for his actions, sorry for his wrong doings, so this is some rare occasion (a miracle). But all I feel is a twisted (sick) gut, disgusted by the words he says (sorry). It feels like he's apologizing for creating me, for making something so pitiful (so wrong) out of something so cruel, so heartless and hungry for power. "Maybe one day I will, but you have to prove to me that you can take on the responsibility of being a father first. You have to show me that you are willing to take time out of your day to take care of us. And for me, you have to make up for the time you lost."

I want him to train me, to show me the ropes of war. I may not meet his standards for an impressive soldier with a bulking body and powerful stance, whose brute force can take down an enemy (intimidate them). From him I take the brawn, from Nym I take the brain. I will build myself up (a perfect king), a terrifying opponent of war, a cunning man with skill in both the shadows and the battlefield.

"Talk."

kid