Fenrir

Fenrir had always thrived when the day shifted to night, he adored when the sunlight grew weak so shadows could slither from the earth. He’d been primed as Yalsehelepthah’s firstborn to live between the black and white of the world, to rule and spread the grey. As the shadowed canyon walls began to open up below him, the shade within his blood began to writhe and curl, begging him to fly faster, eager to catch his prey. Vague memories of his childhood swam through his mind, remembering his first hunt with his family. How proud his mother had been of his blossoming talent, how his former clanmates watched on with worry and scorn. Tucking his wings close to his body for a dive, Fenrir caught one last glance of the sunset scorching against shifting sand dunes before he was completely engulfed in the darkness he’d learned to revel in.

The scent of blood filled his lungs as Fenrir flew between stone walls, carefully following vivid crimson trails after the Gaoler. The sound of dull claws scraping against rock and deep, heavy panting echoed from farther down the canyon trail. He was close. Inside his mind, the voices that he’d become accustomed to began whispering to him, guiding his every movement with supernatural skill. The desperation to end this ongoing war between Adams descendants and the Icewardens Seekers had consumed his days for long enough, and Fenrir was ready to finish it. The foolish idea that the Shade and its followers were “twisted and evil” while the Gaolers orders were “heroic and good” had led to many a conflict, but by bringing down this lieutenant, Fenrir could prove his mother right, and begin spreading this truth out into the rest of the world.

Dogging around one last corner and catching sight of his target, determination spurred him to move faster as he prepared himself to slam into his prey.
“They’ll see the truth.” He vowed to the voices.
“Soon.” They reply.