Agile, swift, and keen of tooth, the wolf is the preeminent hunter. Though once they lived in close harmony with mankind, fierce competition over prey brought Man to shun and eventually revile them. Yet, every once in a while there is still a case, where a man will be compelled to capture a wolf, for whatever reason the wolf may raise his interest.

Every once in a while, a man will still find benefit in keeping that wolf alive.

To be caught up to so quickly over the harsh terrain, he expected no less from a Judge Magister… Of course, it had been a Judge Magister he was expecting when he jumped from the ship as he did. Thus the one who met him – cutting off his retreat – did well to catch him by surprise, a surprise he masked quickly into a condescending sneer.

"The Empire's dog has a dog of his own," he taunted aloud. "Who would have thought…"

The one before him was silent. Though obviously not the Judge Magister, he wore armor that was a visual symbol of his Judge status nonetheless. He seemed a little leaner, a little smaller, but obviously possessed a frightening amount of agility to maneuver freely within the steel suit as well as he did. Comparing this Judge to his superior, his armor was distinctly more animal-like in its design: His was a color scheme of ebony black and dark silver, and a blood red scoop was molded from each cowter, tips flattened and sharpened to form dangerous-looking scythes. His helm was in the form of a lion's head with four red horns curved backward, and through the black depths that were the "lion's" eyes, no doubt were the Judge's own staring through at him.

He already had his weapon out. It was not the pair of Chaos Blade and Highway Star that the Judge Magister he expected was famous for, but a single greatsword that was nonetheless impressive. It was unique in its design – the marriage of a single-edged blade with the chambers and trigger of a gun, the angled hilt a compromise of both. Following the theme of the armor, the shape of a horned lion was burned in fiery red over the silver surface. He was still admiring the unusual weapon when he suddenly found it held up before him, its tip pointed at his throat.

"Draw your sword," a deep, hollow voice resonated from the helm's depths, interestingly sounding like a lion's roar, "or be felled by mine."

Huffing in amusement, he reached behind him and pulled his own weapon free from its leather scabbard. With a soft rush of air, the Buster Sword was held up as well. Deliberately, he chose to hold it with both hands.

"If you wanted to play," he answered in a drawl, "all you had to do was ask."

No more words were wasted between them. It was the Judge who moved first, sharp edge hacking into sharp edge with aggressive force. He allowed his armored opponent a step, then lunged forward, using his momentum to swing both blades and opponent high into the air. He saw it coming – the counterattack – and he promptly raised the Buster Sword again, this time one-handed, as he swung to meet it at once. The cover of a helm did little to hide the Judge's surprise at the sudden display of strength, but the charge continued unhindered.

Blades met again. Then, his confident smirk was lost as a sharp "crack" reached his ears half a second before a powerful shock hit his blade and shot down his arm. The pain he was not prepared for nearly caused him to drop his weapon, but he stubbornly held on, instead backing off to gain some ground between himself and his opponent. Regardless, his blade chopped into the ground as he staggered, a hand on his knee to support him as he caught his breath.

"… So…" he commented lightly, "it seems we both have some trump cards in our decks."

There was no verbal rebuttal, and he could sense the other watching him closely, wary for any other "surprises" that might come his way. He would have played that to his favor if he could, but he knew how little time he truly had at hand before the pursuing troops caught up to them. That earlier move would have been the one to facilitate his getaway, if only the other had not caught him off guard as well.

Grunting, he pushed himself upright and readied the sword once more. The humor was gone from the situation as he prepared to fight for his life, ready to do anything that might best aid in his escape.

"No need for others to interfere, is there?" he called. "We settle this, here and now."

There was a shift of heavy boots against the dusty ground beneath them. The strange gun-sword was raised once more. Still, the Judge said nothing, his agreement to the situation only to dash forward with a burst of speed. Heavy armor that should have been cumbersome did little to hold the blur of force back as the sword was held high, aimed this time for his heart.

No longer seeing the need for pretenses, his hand gripped the hilt and pulled the large sword… backwards. It was a risky endeavor, but if he knew the other, he knew that any further uncommon movements would cause instant paranoia. And if concerned enough for what new trick might be played, his opponent would be too focused on what he was assuming should happen… instead of what could happen.

With his attention on the sharp edge of the huge blade, the Judge did not notice the hilt was moving, from one hand to the next. His only warning was the sudden surge toward him, and still he did not get away fast enough as the pommel connected sharply with the sculpted lion's jaw. There was a startled cry, and the Judge was thrown backward with a shattering clatter of metal plating. A slightly softer clunk of the helm followed in the echo, the lion head rolling to a stop a short distance away.

He had his opening. He went straight for it. Raising his blade high, he slammed it downward with little hesitation. There was too much distance between them – saving the Judge's life – but the tip of the Buster Sword was still close enough to catch him above the eyebrow just as he barely looked up, slicing a line down his face that sprayed hot blood.

The ground beneath them was splattered in red. Both were panting, one with his blade still held tightly and the other partially kneeling on the ground, his head turned from an instinctive attempt to ride with the blow. More blood was dripping, flowing steadily and spattering to the ground with rhythmic noise. With a harsh growl, the Judge turned around and looked up once more.

The unmasked face belonged not to an adult, but to an adolescent. There were some harder, masculine lines that were just setting, but not enough to take away from the youthfulness in that visage. He was clean-shaven, further enhancing his boyish appearance, and soft chocolate bangs stuck to fair skin that was now smeared in blood. Silvery blue eyes were bright with intelligence, though now they were harsh and brittle as they glared up at him.

Looking into those eyes, seeing the blood from the injury he was responsible for, he faltered. "You… You're a…?!"

He had gone too far. He had struck out at a child.

Those intense eyes suddenly widened, the boy just realizing his new predicament. The boy's gaze landed on the helm to his side, then returned to the one responsible for its loss. Bearing his teeth in a silent, furious snarl, the boy tightened his grip on the weapon he had yet to let go of. He only just noticed the blur of motion before a blunt but still narrow force– he guessed the dull side of the blade – smashed into his unguarded side with a sickening "crack". He felt himself fall, his senses losing their edge, and he watched as the boy abruptly turned away and lifted a hand to his face, blocking it from view.

The rest faded into blissful darkness…

He woke to the low drones of engines, vibrations under him telling of an airship just lifting for takeoff. Instinctively testing his limbs, resistance on his arms and the rattle of chains prompted him to look down. Encircling his wrists were familiar shackles, their metal laced with magicite to suppress magic, and secured to them was a length of thick chain bolted to a high point in the wall. He drew his forearms back, attempting to gauge the chain's full slack and, if possible, its strength.

"Don't bother," a familiar hollow voice spoke to him. "It goes halfway to the door and no further, and it has held stronger men than you."

He looked up too quickly, the action causing him to reel before he could fully regain his bearings. Seconds went by before his blurred vision sharpened once more, and he found himself staring through the bars of a cell door. Standing on the other side was that same suit of armor in black and silver colors, and he was again looking into the dark depths of a lion's empty eyes.

"So they train their dogs by taking them as whelps, now…?" he snapped. It was unintentional, but that angry guilt over his earlier actions had to go somewhere. "Or perhaps you're just easier to catch before you learn to run."

The Judge did not rise to the provocation. Instead, he placed a hand on one of the bars, steadying himself as the vibrations grew more violent until they reached their peak. Once they calmed once more, the hand lowered, the armored figure turning away.

"Tired of my company already?" he called after him, causing him to pause.

"If you are awake," the Judge replied, "I am to inform the Judge Magister."

"And why the rush?" he challenged instead. "Why have you kept me alive, anyway?"

"You are a source of information," the Judge answered. "And even if your words are not useful, you are still valuable as a hostage."

He bristled, straightening in his seated position. "You can't be sure of that."

There was a barely audible huff. "Perhaps we cannot. Yet, there is little harm in taking that chance."

Something dawned on him, and he got up. The chain's rattling was enough to hold the Judge's attention just a little longer.

"… Your wound," he spoke this time, words difficult for him to say. "… How bad was it?"

"Nothing maiming," the Judge answered stiffly, uncomfortable with this line of dialogue. "I advise you, for your own sake, to forget it ever happened."

"I can't do that."

"Then consider this," and the Judge had turned back, a glare felt through those unchanging feral "eyes", "if I were an adult, you would not have faltered."

"… but you aren't," he spoke aloud, meeting the anger with sincerity.

You're a kid. You're not supposed to be here.

There was the softest of growls, and the Judge turned away. "If this is pity, you can save it for yourself."

"What's your name?"

Another huff, but still the Judge relented enough to give an answer: "I am Judge Griever. You will want to remember that."

"A false name, huh?" He had expected as much. "You'll have to give me a real one, if you want mine."

Judge Griever seemed surprised, and this time he turned around. "Are you not called Fenrir?"

"Just a title, much like yours," he replied easily. "Though not as flashy, I'll give you that."

The Judge was watching him with renewed interest – bare as it was – before asking pointedly, "What exactly do you want?"

He shrugged with his reply. "Many things: riches, peace, safety, adventure, a lovely spouse to wake up next to… but from you…"

His bound hands came up together, one curled partially while the other pointed a finger at the young Judge. He spoke seriously now, leaving no misunderstanding of his intentions:

"I want a rematch."

Judge Griever seemed surprised, and then actually considering it for a moment. Then, with a scoff, he dismissed it and turned away for a final time, walking back the way he came through the corridor.

But he saw it nevertheless. He knew the other's answer without it having to be said: In spite of his mature front, he was still a teenager with impulsive desires that he was probably doing all he could to keep in check. If this was a chance for the boy to prove himself worthy despite his age, he would take it.

He would take it very, very soon…