Blood dripped from Atzar’s left hand, splashing on the fallen leaves that blanketed the forest floor. Silence reigned in the wake of the tumultuous violence that had exploded just seconds prior.

Blood dripped from six still forms lying in front of him, shattered spikes of ice melting amongst their remains. Then there was the seventh form. A pup. It gazed up at him, apparently oblivious that he had just slaughtered its family.

Days like this made Atzar hate his occupation, hate himself. He was a sword-for-hire (in a manner of speaking; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had ever wielded a sword). Some of his jobs were things that his employer couldn’t do; others were things that his employer wouldn’t do.

This was of the latter sort. His client was a tycoon who owned stakes in several of the area’s farms, and the farmers had complained of losing livestock to wolf attacks. Atzar was the exterminator. It hadn’t been a difficult task; the farmers had given him an accurate description of where to find the den. And they died as easily as most things that get skewered by a hail of ice spears. All it had cost him was a slice on his left hand, self-inflicted. Blood for power.

But the seventh, the pup… he didn’t have the heart to kill it. It was small, innocent; it didn’t understand that he represented the end of its life. It didn’t understand that it was already doomed. It would starve, or perhaps it would be eaten by predators. It wouldn’t die here and now because Atzar lacked the conviction to kill it. But it would die. The mage sighed and pulled out a knife. Jaw set in a resolute grimace, he quickly removed the tail from each of the dead wolves, proof to his employer of a job done. Then he left.

Crows called to each other in the trees above. He had completed contracts like this in the past. It would hurt for a few days, but the wound would heal over time like any other. He would collect his pay and go home. He would take his next job; hopefully something a bit easier on the conscience. And life would go on.

A noise caused him to turn. Eyes peered up at him, innocent, trusting. A tail wagged; the pup paused to kick at one ear, its foot thumping on the forest floor.

Atzar ignored it and walked on, but the young wolf followed. “Shoo,” he barked. It struck him as such a silly thing to say to an animal. As if the wolf knew what that meant.

Again it wagged its tail. It took a step closer and stopped, one paw in the air, as if asking to be invited along.

“Shoo!” The voice was louder, but the spirit falter. The wolf pup didn’t waver. Finally, after a long standoff, Atzar sighed and turned.

“Alright, come on,” he said to the wolf. The pup didn’t move. “Come on,” he repeated, patting his hip and beckoning.

This, it appeared to understand. It galloped along at his side, tail wagging incessantly, looking for all the world like an animal who hadn’t just lost its entire family.

“I haven’t the slightest fucking clue what I’m going to do with you,” Atzar told the small creature. “But come on. I guess we’ll figure that out later.” And somehow, the mage felt a little bit better than he had just moments ago.