“Are we there yet, Da?” Spirito Deshik’s high-pitched childish voice sounded muffled from within the carry halter strung across his father’s back. His small, pale, fur-covered muzzle poked out for an instant from the loose flap of the heavy leather cover.

Salor Deshik shifted to look over his shoulder at his youngest, catching the glint of bright gray eyes peering back at him, the likeness to his wife Yilta was uncanny, and reminded him of her concern with making his destination in time.

“Not yet, son. Stay put. I’ll let you know when we can take a break.” His graveled voice rasped in reply. With resolve, he pointed his darker fur-covered muzzle, the jagged scar a prominent ragged cut across the top, into the air. He sniffed at the intrusive metallic scent of the massive towering gates gleaming before him in the spring sunlight. Warm rays topped the Grinning Hills they’d covered by loping movement over the last two days. Only to arrive at this very spot. His bristle of long whiskers quivered and his large dark eyes blinked, a lip curled upward to show a single missing tooth in the two rows of strong white canines. He contemplated options, his body fur ruffled in the light breeze, its slight thinning pelt giving the misconception of age. His defined muscular form denies that conclusion.

The shadow of himself fell across the ground, stretching large and broad as he shifted the carryall. He felt his 3-year-old adjust within. Salor ignored his tail sweeping left and right as he hesitated. “Hang on, buddy,” Salor spoke over his shoulder toward the tilted bag opening.

“Kay, Da,” the child responded.

Salor eyes the monstrosity once more and shakes his head, his large pointed ears twitching left and right, simultaneously. He looked to the left of the gate and examined the fifteen-foot high wall, its brick-and-mortar build of a large rectangular sediment was a design of stacked concrete, its length about twenty feet on both sides of the metal gate. He could easily walk around the structure if he left the well-worn path he now stood on.

But his eyes were drawn back to the twin halves of gray metal, clearly showing more hills beyond them. These hills were also sun-dappled as the morning light blanketed the land with a comforting warmth.

He hefted his precious cargo, yanking the dangling straps at his sides tighter before he took the last five strides to the gate. Close enough to see the truth. His eyes narrowed as he recognized the idyllic vision blurring when he moved up close. The gate was mirroring the image of the countryside behind him.

His paw, just about to touch the framework, curled inward, his mind whirling at the magical capability of pulling that feat off with such precision. Sucking in a swift breath, the small curl to his lip once again rose, as if the beastly growl he wanted to give might yet escape his lungs. He did not like unknowns. He did not like taking risks. To plan all before any was the Canid Warrior’s creed. As was his way and his fallen fathers before him, he doubted his path when he was not a step ahead of an unknown enemy. Why couldn’t he plan this? He snorted in self-derision. He was being ridiculous. He could almost hear his wife’s clear advice in the air, almost straight from the Red Clan readings she’d believed since she was younger than before they’d met. “This is not yours to plan, Salor. A destiny was chosen for our Spirito the second he drew breath. We are only his means of moving toward it. He does not fear, nor should you.” He felt the small form curled into his back, a warm little ball of joy. He blinked at the surprise of happiness he felt at that moment.

Until his son chose to bump him with what felt like a sharp elbow and wake him from his circling mind. He fell right back into the midst of unease. Reminded why he was here in the first place. No matter what he wanted to do, this wasn’t a small attack plan to take out an enemy, nor a summertime outing of exploration, nor was he seeking solitude such that a meditation retreat might be found. He did not just happen to head to this trail three days from his home village by accident. After putting off the ritual till the last, Salor was harassed by Yilta and swear-bound to deliver their son for the required age vision quest at the Temple of Brumial by the Skaveen.

After today’s final hour, his son Spirito would no longer be eligible for his first reading. And his life, although so brief, was already shaping into a purpose. Salor fought against his distrusting nature to accept the plausibility of an unknown foretelling that might change his son’s path. But, as his wife Yilta reminded him, a father’s responsibility was held to encourage and develop his offspring to the fullest degree. And since Spirito would be the next protector to be bonded to the Royal potentate, Salor was anxious to teach him everything a protector needed to know.

Salor leaned forward and pressed his claws to the metal, he pushed against the gate expecting to brace for a heavyweight but the gate opened without resistance and stopped just a quarter of the parting. Small snowflakes burst outward and a freezing bitter cold rushed to engulf him, stealing the insulated air from beneath his fur and cauterizing the warmth with the severing of an ice pick. He stepped back from the gap and shifted the pack to carefully lower it down to the ground. The bag dropped from his small son’s wolf form, a perky muzzle with soft white fur, his twitching ears, his blinking trusting gaze and a white tail curled around his lower body.

While the Deshik family line established one of the highest quality protectorships in Canid history, his father and grandfather, Payos and Biban Deshik, the abSan-protectors of King Horment III died while on duty. Salor’s clawed fingers twitched to give the shortest version of a spirit blessing for their passing. His protector role bonding to Nadiue, 1st son, was now replaced by his cousin for the current leg injury he denied having, which did not heal right.

His eldest daughter Shasis, the current protector of Latik, second son, was ensconced in the perils of her role, already having gained some subtle scars both physically and internally if her hardening gaze told Salor of anything. He was broken with worry for her. But looking at his little Spirito, the future protectorate of Tanue, the third son of the King, regardless of his wife’s narrow gaze and whip-like tongue against the nature of it, tightened a fist around his heart. At this age, he was without flaw. No taint and a treasure to keep safe from harm. Salor smiled tenderly at the cub wishing only for his son to remain so pure.

“We arrived, Da?”

“No, son. We still have a distance to travel but it looks like it will be freezing. I want to wrap you into the ground spread we slept in and keep you as warm as possible.”

“Oh,” Spirito’s breath came out of his mouth visible as the coldness crept from the gates to wash over him. He squinted at the doorway.

“It’s so dark in there. Do we have to go?”

“Yes, Spirito.” Salor lowered his tone with seriousness. “I have almost waited too long. It is very important.”

“Why?”

“Because the reading must be done before you turn four. It is the rules.”

“Why?”

Salor almost smiled at his son’s proclivity to ask that particular question when he was stalling.

“The temple patrons, the Skaveen, the readers of the mystic, believe three is the perfect age to determine the truest traits of your fate. They call it a ‘reading’ and they have been performing this skill for hundreds of years. And you are the next one in the Deshik protector line to have it done.

“Does it hurt?”

Salor paused his movements of wrapping the boy, “the reading?”

Spirito nodded.

“No, or at least I do not remember any pain. I had it done when I was but three. My father brought me to the Skaveen, just like I’m bringing you. It is one of the first steps you will take on the journey of becoming a protector. It is an honorable thing.”

“Then why is Mama sad?” Spirito tilted his head and let one ear fall softly.

Salor raised his left eye ridge. He knew his kid was observant and he knew his wife had begun to teach him the ways of the Red Clan Spirit as she spun tales into his mind to teach him about the world. Only her world was about life and the meanings of it. His own was about battles, defeats, and death. He bit his tongue to avoid speaking about her presumptions. He’d made that call long ago when he took her hand in his. Being a protector was the opposite of life teachings. Spirito would learn the darkest fates, more than he’d ever want when dealing with death hunters and the end of things.

He took the coward’s way. “Perhaps she will miss you when you go to the Proev’l Training Grounds? Let’s get you bundled.” His avoidance of the truth was punished by the instant rise of his thoughts regarding the severe battle training his son would endure on those grounds. Training meant to break him down and build him back up into the killer assassin he would need to become.

Salor took every last bit of clothing and material to wrap Spirito and himself for the cold. He even covered his nose and mouth to keep from freezing his tongue.
“Stay down inside the carry, Spirito. It will be freezing.

Stay wrapped up.”

“Yes, Da. I will.”