A few years before...

Gworyn was flying over the spruce trees. He didn't have anywhere else to go, really, because he was one of the smithing owls that flew over the land. Honestly, everyone did it. It seemed a part of his life. At least, that he knew of.

He was alone, soaring through the trees. It was a great feeling. His feathers glimmered in the moonlight, and his dappled wings seemed to reflect the stars. With a silent whoop, he tilted his wings and made a banking turn.

It was then that he heard the small, desperate yip. It was accompanied by a growl. Gworyn tilted his head to hear more. This time, he could hear clearly.

"For Lupus's sake, shut him up before we're spotted," a husky voice hissed. "We don't want to be seen. Or heard."

There was a sharp thwack and a yelp, and everything fell silent.

Gworyn felt a tightening in his gizzard. Who were those creatures? And what did that noise come from? Whatever it was, Gworyn knew it couldn't be good. He silently flew after the small sounds. Even though the animals were trying their best to remain silent, Gworyn's sharp ear slits could detect their breathing. So he flew.

They reached a large, cold slab of ice jutting from the ground, shoving trees aside. This must be a remnant from the avalanches, Gworyn thought. His wings shivered slightly but he leaned forward.

His gizzard gave a lurch as he saw two wolves... why wolves? They dragged the lifeless form of a pup onto the ice. Then they loped silently away, without a backwards glance.

Gworyn lighted down onto the ice and surveyed the pup. He—Gworyn could tell—was breathing shallowly. A cut from his head bled onto the ice, where it immediately froze. He was a pitiful sight. And—there was a faint remnant of milk on his muzzle.

Gworyn stepped back. Great Glaux! He had never known of a pup being weaned this way. But he had to get the pup to safety, and fast. He looked around. His cave was nearby. Gworyn preferred living in caves, rather than hollows. Trees burned down too fast. He clutched the pup in his talons and flapped off.

Gworyn heaped some cooled-off embers into a pile, and doused them with snow. They fizzled and went out, their fire quenched, but there was still heat in them. He threw moss onto it and laid the pup down. He noticed there was a slight twist to one of his paws. That must be why he was cast out, Gworyn thought. Still, it didn't seem right.

The pup stirred. Gworyn bent over him in an instant. "It'll be okay, little one." He felt rather awkward saying these things, but they felt right in his beak. "You just had a nasty bump on your head."

The pup blinked. "Mum?" He whispered.

A terrible ache spread through Gworyn's gizzard. "Not yet." He wondered at this pup's fate. If he returned him to the tribe, he would surely be killed. No doubt about it. And yet...

No. It would result in nothing but more grief and an innocent life killed. Better to look after him.

The pup's eyes followed Gworyn around his cave. Feathers rustling, Gworyn bent over his fire. How would he take care of this pup?

"What's your name?" The question sprang abruptly from his beak.

The pup blinked again, then fell asleep.

Gworyn felt around for some rabbit-ear moss. He put some over the pup's wound and tied it with some sinew. "Not a bad job," he muttered. He felt a deep rage for the wolves that had hurt this creature. Animals they were. He hobbled over to his metal and began tinkering.

A few hours later, he turned around again and took a double take. The pup was watching him, eyes tracking every movement. It made Gworyn uneasy. He looked out. It was First Lavender, dusk. He spread his wings to go catch some food. Maybe he could feed the pup.

Just before the owl sprang up into the sky, the pup whispered something.

"My name is Glennwood."