The world had exploded--literally, in a big old fiery ball of flaming glory, the withering packlands of Gomorrah (and most of Telk, to be completely honest) were engulfed in liquid flame that spread across the land. The ash was thick in the air, smoke hanging heavy over the heads of the wolves who managed to make it out alive.
One of those wolves happened to be Urban. Gomorrah's crown prince, whether he was happy about it or not. He'd been on the outskirts of his territory, doing what he did best, when the rumbles began. Instinct had warned him to run, but Urban wasn't good at following orders. So he'd gone back, alerted to the pack's worries and fears. And fear had been right.
They had fled in a group, but the flames made them scatter. Urban ran alongside his mother, trying to keep her from faltering; her damn pride kept her from bolting like she should've, the fact that the place she was born, bred, raised, and erected Queen was burning to the ground, and fast. He'd tried to help, running along behind her to snap at her flanks, but...
He'd lost her. He'd lost them all. He followed his gut this time, fleeing the scene on fleet feet, his lungs tight from the smoke and his eyes gritty from the heat. He, the prince who had never been alone in his life, always having friends and agemates and cronies to clown around with, was by himself.
Silence was a bitter friend in these strange lands. He wished for a friendly face, hoped to see Gerda or Novik or Swell or his mother, someone. Anyone. But he would make it; he was made too strong, too proud, too vain to give up.
Gomorrah might have fallen, but he was the prince of sin.
