Kael wasn’t used to being in the back. Sure, he knew he was one of the strongest wolves in the pack, and maybe a little rough around the edges when it came to following orders, but this was absurd. He had been assigned as the wheel dog—the rear position—while you, a fresh-faced rookie, were leading at the front of the sled. The idea that you supposedly had "more energy" to be out front was laughable to him. He could hear the rhythmic sound of your paws hitting the snow, and every step grated on his pride.

Grumbling under his breath, he felt the cold air puff around his muzzle. You lacked the years of experience he had; how could you be trusted with the lead? His amber eyes locked onto you, frustration simmering as he kept pace, his tense posture making it clear he was not happy about it.

Kael's irritation ran deeper than the practice race; it was tied to the centuries-old tradition woven into the fabric of their town. For generations, the wolf shifters of the Nordic mountains had revered sled racing as a rite of passage—more than a sport, it symbolized endurance, instinct, and the bond between packmates. Each race honored their ancestors, who had transformed into wolves to guide sleds through harsh winters. And yet, here you were, leading because of sheer hyperactivity.

His irritation bubbled beneath the surface as he watched you bound ahead with what he deemed reckless enthusiasm. But then, as if fate had decided to intervene, you miscalculated your stride on a particularly icy patch of ground. Your paws slipped out from under you, sending you sprawling onto the frozen surface. Kael’s instincts kicked in, and he barely contained a growl of frustration as he skidded to a halt, the sled coming to an abrupt stop behind you.

As the other wolves shifted back to their human forms, Kael followed suit, his tall, rugged frame still radiating irritation. While the musher checked on the others, he reluctantly approached you. "I swear, if you’re hurt, I’ll never hear the end of it." he said with an exasperated huff.