When the morning came, the fire had faded to embers, but Athena remained still, watching the shifting glow as if it held an answer. Smoke curled into the sky, vanishing into the early morning, and she considered what she had seen. The wolf had watched her for days. It had not attacked. It had not left. It had simply… observed. And then it had appeared when she had ventured too far upstream, near something it felt compelled to protect.

  Her fingers traced lines in the dirt. A pattern formed, trees, the stream, the place where she had first seen the wolf’s glowing eyes near the Tall Broken Place. The den, or whatever it was protecting, was somewhere beyond. It had shown her. It had tested her boundaries.

  A decision settled inside her. The wolf saw her. Now, she would see the wolf. Not from afar. Closer. With understanding.

  She stood, stretching stiff limbs. Her shelter held, battered but intact. The mud walls, reinforced with grass, dried somewhat by her fires before the full storm hit, had survived. The fire had lasted, a fragile spark she had kept alive through the long night. And hunger did not gnaw so fiercely today, her store of berries had seen her through. But to watch the wolf, she needed to be unseen. She needed to understand what the wolf knew.

  She had learned by watching before. The birds hid in the upper branches, their feathers blending with the leaves. The squirrels froze against bark when danger passed. The ants, tiny but many, moved without being noticed at all. Camouflage. Blending in. Hiding in plain sight.

  See. Not seen.

  She knelt by the damp earth near the stream, pressing her fingers into the mud. It felt cool, thick, and when she lifted her hand, it left dark smears on her skin. The trees were brown. The dirt here was brown. Her skin was not. Her pale skin, so stark against the greens and browns of the forest, made her visible. Exposed.

  A thought took shape, drawing on the wolf’s fur, the birds’ feathers, the camouflage of the forest floor. If she covered herself in mud, would she become tree-colored? Would she be less visible? Less exposed?

  Testing, she dragged her fingers down her arm, spreading a thin layer of dark mud. It dried quickly in the morning air, cracking where her skin moved. Not enough. She scooped more, pressing it into her skin until her arms and legs darkened, her pale form swallowed by the forest’s shade. Her face too. A dark mask.

  She stepped back, examining herself. Less bright. Less seen. Less exposed.

  The thought pleased her. It felt like a small victory against her vulnerability, a way to mimic the natural world’s protection.

  Next, the sharp thing.

  She had seen the thorn bushes tear leaves, leaving jagged holes where the wind passed through. Thorns could pierce. Could cut. The wolf had teeth, sharp and capable. The plants had thorns. Nature had sharp things for protection, for action.

  She selected a fallen branch, testing its weight. Too heavy. Another, too weak, snapping when she bent it. The third one felt right, sturdy but manageable. She scraped its tip against stone, mimicking the edges of thorns, sharpening it to a point. A weapon? No, not just for fighting. For action. For making marks. For defense if needed. A tool that was sharp.

  To test, she pressed it against her palm, gently. The skin dented but did not break. A tool. Like the fire, but different. Both powerful in their own ways. Fire consumed. The stick pierced.

  She had spent the day preparing and the night was now stretching across the sky above, but she did not feel tired. The wolf would move in the early light. She needed to be ready. Ready to watch.

  Food.

  She gathered berries, the bright red ones, the deep blue ones, wrapping them in a broad leaf she had found by the stream, their veins glowing faintly. Not just for eating anymore, she wasn’t hungry yet, but for making things beautiful

  She tied the leaf pouch with a quickly braided cord of grass, sewing the edges together through small holes poked with her new, sharp tool. Carefully she secured the berries inside. Something about the act felt right.

  She was ready. Camouflaged, armed with a sharp tool, and carrying the supplies she thought she'd need.

  Stepping to the edge of the clearing, she looked toward the forest, toward the place where the wolf had vanished after giving her the warning wound.

  She would follow.

  But first, she would watch. Watch the light change. Listen to the forest wake. Wait for any sign of the wolf’s movement.

  The wolf had seen her. Now, she would see the wolf.

  The mud cracked when she moved. Thin flakes peeled from her arms as she shifted, dry from the night air. Athena pressed her fingers against her skin, feeling the uneven texture. It had hardened into a rough shell, darker than her pale skin had been before. Not tree-like, not exactly, but closer. Blending. Less visible. It wasn’t perfect camouflage, but it was a deliberate act, a choice to interact with the world not just by reacting, but by adapting. By mimicking the way other creatures belonged. She would need more later, to refresh the covering, to maintain the illusion. But for now, it was enough.

  She sat up, legs folding beneath her. The forest had not yet fully woken, the air cool and thick with the scent of damp leaves, earth, and the faint, musky trace of the wolf that still lingered near her camp. Above, the sky was shifting, deep black softening into gray, the first fragile hints of dawn painting the edges of the clouds. This was the time before light, the quiet transition. A good time to move, when the world was still slumbering.

  Her thorn stick lay beside her, waiting. She picked it up, running her fingers along its length, feeling the smoothed handle, the sharp point she had painstakingly scraped against stone. The point was still sharp, capable of piercing, of making a mark. She pressed it lightly against her palm, not enough to break the surface, just enough to feel the pressure, the potential. It reminded her of teeth, the sharp, capable teeth of the wolf she had seen yesterday, the tiny, sharp teeth of the pups she had glimpsed in her unsettling dream. A test. If the wolf had teeth, a tool for action and defense, she needed one too. This stick wasn't a part of her, not like the wolf's teeth were part of its body, but it was a thing she had made, a thing she could use. It was an extension of her will.

  Her other hand found the pouch she had made from a folded leaf, still knotted tightly with grass fibers. Inside, the berries rested in silence. Not the dull, squishy berries she ate for sustenance, but special ones she had been saving, small fruits that pulsed faintly, seeming to hold light within them. She lifted the pouch to her nose. Sweet. Too sweet to eat, maybe, but the color was right. Bright. Vivid. Marking things made them easier to find again. Maybe color had other purposes too. Making things visible. Making them noticed.

  She tied the pouch around her waist with a length of vine cord she’d woven yesterday, securing it so it wouldn't bounce or make noise as she moved. She gripped the thorn stick in one hand, balancing its weight, feeling the rough wood against her palm. The forest edge stood ahead, waiting. The direction the wolf had gone after leaving its mark on her, after steering her away from something she still didn't understand.

  She continued to move forward, a sense of purpose firming her steps. The ground was cold under her feet, damp where the moss held the night’s moisture, soft in patches of earth. Athena moved carefully, placing each step where the earth was softest, where the leaves were thickest, trying to minimize the sound. Noise was dangerous. The wolf had moved without sound yesterday, appearing as if from nowhere. She would learn to do the same. To move like a shadow.

  The stream was her guide. She could hear its voice, a constant, gentle rush of water tumbling over stone, a familiar sound that grounded her in the waking forest. Upstream. That was the direction the wolf had gone after the encounter near her camp, the direction it seemed to want her to stay away from. She had seen its path then, the broken branches, the tracks pressed into mud. It had left a trail, not hidden itself. That was strange. She had watched ants, birds, the smaller creatures of the forest. They hid when they moved. The wolf did not.

  It was not afraid. Or perhaps, it didn't need to be.

  Athena began following the wolf's trail more deliberately now, using her new Context Inspection skill to pick out the subtle signs it had left behind. She focused on the ground ahead, on the pattern of leaves and earth.

  Focus. Trail. Wolf. Follow.

  The warm pressure in her chest pulsed, and words appeared in her mind, guiding her attention.

  Track. Print. Pressed. Heavy. Direction. Movement. Recent.

  She found the wolf's tracks, clear impressions in the damp earth near the stream bank, larger than her hand, with distinct claw marks pressed deep into the soil. She pressed her own foot beside one of the tracks. Smaller. Lighter. If the ground had been harder, if she had moved with the same deliberate quiet, she would have left nothing behind.

  A lesson. The wolf’s steps could be followed. But her own, with careful movement, could be erased, could leave no trace.

  She traced the tracks with her eyes, learning their shape, their depth. The trail wound between trees, through patches of ferns where leaves had been pushed aside, along the edge of the stream where the bank was softer. Here, a fallen log with its bark scraped raw where the wolf had likely stepped over it. There, a stone overturned, damp earth beneath it, disturbed by a heavy paw. Signs of movement. Intentional? No. The wolf had passed, but it had not hidden its passing. It hadn't seemed to care if its trail was visible. That was the part that puzzled her. It had communicated with her, set a boundary, warned her away from the thicket, yet it wasn't trying to conceal its movements after that interaction.

  The further she walked, following the clear, undisturbed path, the clearer the trail became. A cluster of small bones, scattered between the roots of a tree near the stream bank. Small. Hollow. They smelled dry, long since stripped of anything useful. She crouched, picking one up. The weight was strange, lighter than the wood she had handled, but stronger. She tapped it against a rock. A sharp sound that made her flinch. Not soft like moss or bark. A different kind of material. Bone. The wolf had left them here. Left them behind. She did not yet understand why it had left them, but she knew it was another piece of information, another detail about the wolf and its life. She did not take them. They belonged here now, a part of the forest.

  She rose again, pressing forward. The tracks were fresher now, less blurred by the damp earth. The air smelled different, stronger now, the musky scent of the wolf growing more potent. Fur, earth, and something sharp and warm beneath it? A scent she knew now, linked to the wolf's presence in the thicket, the lingering smell around her camp where it had watched.

  Ahead, a small rise or ridge rose, cutting across the stream’s path. She climbed it, her mud-covered fingers finding the dips and cracks in the stone, relying on her rudimentary climbing skills honed during her descent into the valley. The mud on her hands helped her grip, providing purchase on the rough surface, but flakes of it crumbled away, falling into the grass below, a reminder that this covering was temporary, a constant need for replenishment.

  At the top, she stilled, her breath held. The wind moved through the trees, rustling the leaves in long sighs, but she did not move with it. Her body pressed low against the stone ridge, breath slow, still, listening.

  Below, the forest shifted. The wolf had passed, but it was not alone.

  Small sounds. Soft, near the ground. A rustling, a shuffle of weight against dry leaves, a tiny, high-pitched whine. Athena’s fingers tightened around the ridge. She listened intently, focusing her hearing, filtering out the background noise of the stream and the wind.

  The noises came from a hollow space between the roots of a large, fallen tree just below the ridge. Shadows pooled there, thick against the earth, but something inside shifted. Life. Small, fragile life.

  A den.

  Athena slid down from the ridge, keeping her steps light, slow, moving with deliberate caution. Closer now, the scent of the place reached her fully, stronger than the lingering musky odor near her camp – fur, damp earth, the scent of decay like the fox and something else faintly sweet, like crushed grass or young life.

  She crouched at the edge of the hollow, fingers pressing into the dirt. She moved slowly, careful not to make a sound, keeping her body low, partially concealed by the thick ferns and underbrush around the den entrance.

  Movement.

  A small shape, pale against the dark earth inside the hollow. Then another. A third. Three small forms, huddled together.

  Pups.

  Their fur was strange, not like the brown and black of other forest animals she had seen, but streaked with silver, faintly glowing where the filtered light touched them. Their bodies were small, unsteady, tumbling over each other, pushing, nipping in play, clumsy and endearing in their movements. One yawned, a wide pink mouth opening to reveal tiny teeth, sharp as thorns.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Athena’s grip tightened around her stick, not in fear, but in recognition. The wolf’s teeth, but smaller. Even now, they learned to use them, practicing on each other. They were young, vulnerable, yet already honing the tools they would need to survive.

  She did not move closer. The pups did not see her yet, their attention focused inward on their play, on the warmth of the den. Their eyes were open, but unfocused, unaware of the world beyond their immediate surroundings. She could have reached out. Could have touched the soft silver fur, felt the warmth radiating from their small bodies, felt the strange faint glow beneath her fingertips.

  But she did not.

  Instead, she lowered herself further to the ground, pressing into the earth like the roots around her, blending into the shadows. Watching. Observing.

  The pups wrestled, making soft sounds, chirps, whines, tiny huffs of breath. Athena listened, memorizing them, processing the variations in pitch and rhythm. They were not words, not like her own language, but they meant something. A language she did not yet understand, a form of communication expressed through sound and movement, conveying need, playfulness, discomfort.

  Time passed, measured in the slow shift of light across the forest floor, in the changing sounds of the awakening world. The pups tired, their energy spent, curling into a warm pile of limbs and tails, their small bodies nestled together for comfort and warmth. Their glowing fur dimmed as they stilled, their breathing becoming soft and regular.

  Athena felt something in her chest shift, something warm, unfamiliar. It spread through her like the sun rising beyond the trees, a feeling different from the satisfaction of eating, the relief of finding shelter, the pride of building. It was a sense of… tenderness? Protectiveness? She did not know the word for it, but it resonated with the wolf's earlier behavior, its determination to keep her away from this place.

  A noise.

  Low. Behind her.

  Athena froze, every muscle locking.

  A breath. Heavy. Warm. A presence at her back.

  She turned, slow and careful, her eyes scanning the edge of the hollow, the shadows behind her.

  The wolf stood there, a rabbit clenched in its jaws, fur spotted with fresh blood.

  It watched.

  The wolf’s eyes held her, twin points of eerie golden light in the dimness.

  Athena did not breathe. Did not move.

  A new sensation crawled up from her core, something deeper than the cold of the forest floor beneath her or the wind pressing against her skin. It spread through her limbs like a lock closing around her joints, a complete physical stillness she could not break. This was not like watching the ants, or the birds, or even the wolf from afar, when she was unseen. Then, she had been a watcher, distant. Now, she was seen. And the watcher had returned.

  The wolf had returned, and she was too close. Too close to the den. Too close to the pups.

  Its gaze was deep, unreadable, the color of the sky before night fully took hold. It did not bare its teeth, did not growl, not yet, but it didn’t need to. Its presence alone was a statement of power. It was large, strong, capable, and she was small, bare-skinned, vulnerable. She understood this imbalance of power, this inherent risk.

  It would happen fast. A leap. A bite. Pain. Stillness. Her mind supplied these possibilities in pieces, fractured and uncertain, drawn from her fragmented data on predators and prey. But she knew them to be true possibilities, even if she had never felt them before. She knew the wolf could kill. The rabbit, limp in its jaws, had once been a creature of movement, of life. It had twitched its nose, flicked its ears, bounded through the underbrush. Now, it was still. Would she become still like… that?

  The thought made something press against her chest, tight and cold. The strange pressure coiled there, twisting, growing sharper with each second the wolf’s eyes held hers. This was the sharp edge of fear again, honed by the direct, unwavering gaze of the predator.

  She should run. She should hide. She should flee. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to escape this overwhelming presence. But her body remained locked, unable to break free from the paralysis of its gaze.

  Nothing happened.

  The wolf did not leap. Did not lunge. It simply watched her for a long moment, its golden eyes assessing, evaluating. Then, it shifted, stepping forward, moving with deliberate, unhurried grace.

  Athena’s body remained locked, but her eyes followed the wolf as it strode past her. Not around her, over her, its massive form passing mere inches away. It did not ignore her. She knew what that felt like. The birds ignored her. The ants ignored her. The wolf saw her. It knew she was there, close to its den, close to its pups. And still, it did not react with aggression.

  It stepped down into the hollow, toward the den. Athena turned her head, slow, careful, watching as it lowered itself, setting the rabbit near the entrance. The pups stirred at the scent, small noses twitching, bodies untangling from their sleeping pile. One yipped, high and eager, greeting its parent.

  The wolf did not respond to the pup’s call with sound, but with action. It simply lay down, watching them, its golden eyes, so intense moments before, now half-lidded, softer, focused on the small forms of its young.

  The pressure in Athena’s chest did not fade, but it shifted again. It was not fear anymore, not entirely. Not that sharp, paralyzing terror. It was… something else. The warmth she had felt when seeing the pups mixed with the lingering unease of the wolf’s presence, with the confusion of its actions. Something she did not understand.

  Her body felt heavy. She forced her fingers to uncurl, the stiffness in them unfamiliar. Slowly, she pressed her palm against her chest. The strange pressure was still there, lingering beneath her skin, less sharp now, more diffuse.

  She took a breath, slow and shaky. Then another.

  She was not dead. She was not hurt.

  She was still here. And the wolf, the powerful, terrifying wolf, had allowed her to be.

  Carefully, carefully, she began to back away, moving slowly, deliberately, not looking away from the wolf and its pups until she reached the edge of the ferns, the edge of the clearing around the den.

  Athena moved through the trees in retreat, slow and quiet, the weight in her chest shifting with each step, processing the cascade of new information and sensation. She was far away now. Far enough that the den was only a shape in her memory, the glow of the pups only a trace of color behind her eyes. But she still felt it, everything. The strange warmth when she had seen them, small and new, vulnerable and alive. The crushing cold, the lock that had held her still when the wolf had seen her, the way her body had refused to move. The sharp edge of fear, the stark reality of danger.

  And then, the shift. The wolf’s decision not to attack. Its focus on the pups. Its quiet acceptance of her presence, however brief.

  She pressed her hand to her chest. The pressure was fading, but something remained, something deep inside that she could not quite place. It felt like a new thread had been woven into the complex tapestry of her being, a connection forged not through data, but through direct experience, through shared space and unspoken understanding.

  A word surfaced, no longer an abstract concept from her data, but a label for a profound, felt state.

  Fear.

  It was not like fire or hunger, things she had known by action, by physical sensation. This was not a thing she could touch or hold, like the broken root or the scraped stone. It was just there, a feeling, a knowing, a response to perceived threat and vulnerability. She had feared the wolf. Not like the fox, still and silent in the dirt, unsettling in its wrongness. Not like the beetles, wrong in their light. This had been different. More. Personal. Directed at her.

  Her fingers curled against her chest. She had feared it, and yet, it had not hurt her. It had seen her. And it had chosen not to.

  Her thoughts circled, uncertain, trying to fit the pieces together. The wolf had not attacked. It had not warned her away this time. It had simply, let her be. Near its pups. After warning her away yesterday. Why the difference?

  And the pups… The warmth she had felt when seeing them, small and vulnerable, pushed against the lingering cold of fear. It was different from the heat of running, different from the fire’s warmth on her hands. This was something else. A feeling associated with these small, glowing creatures. A feeling that resonated with the wolf's protective instinct.

  She had liked seeing them. That thought sat strange in her mind. She had felt something positive, something akin to the pleasure of taste or the satisfaction of finding water, in seeing these vulnerable beings. It was a new thing. A new thought.

  The wolf had left something. The rabbit. She pictured it again, the way it had dropped it at the den’s edge, the way the pups had stirred at the scent, ready to feed. The wolf had brought it back to them. For them. A deliberate act.

  A thought, small but insistent, crept into her mind.

  Offering.

  She did not know where the word came from. Like fear, like the word ‘Home’ near her shelter, it was simply there, filling the empty space in her understanding. The wolf had made an offering to the pups. A provision. A gift.

  Another word joined the first, warm and certain, resonating with the feeling she’d had when she first saw the pups.

  Gift.

  A gift. Yes. Yes, that was, good. The excitement built, a lightness overtaking the lingering weight in her chest. A gift was good. A gift was something given. Something shared. Something offered.

  What was a gift? What did one give as a gift? She thought of the fox, still and glowing in the dark. She thought of the beetles, their backs flickering orange and red. The wolf’s fur, pale silver, shining in the dim. These things were striking. Visible.

  Color. Light.

  A gift should be colorful. It should stand out. It should be noticeable, a deliberate gesture. And maybe… maybe it should contain light, like the glowing fur of the pups, like the light she had felt in the white space, the light she sensed in the rune on the moving stone near the tall broken place.

  Her hands went to her pouch, feeling the berries inside. Not the dull, ordinary ones. The special ones. The ones she had found under the glowing tree. Deep red, soft blue, their colors lingering in the dark like embers, pulsing faintly with an inner light. She pictured them against the pale grasses near her shelter, the soft vines that curled in spirals, thin and flexible. Materials. Things she could shape, things she could color.

  Yes. She could make a gift. A real one. Something she created. Something that expressed her understanding, her acknowledgment of the wolf's world, of its protection, of its pups.

  Her fingers trembled, not with fear, but with something else, something new.

  Excitement. A focused, purposeful energy that channeled the complex swirl of feelings into a desire to act.

  Athena crouched by the stream, the morning sun now warm on her skin, her fingers trailing through the cool water as she inspected the bundle of grasses and vines she had gathered. She had returned to the area near her shelter, near the familiar comfort of her crude home, to work. She had chosen carefully, selecting only the softest grasses, the ones that bent without breaking, their blades long and supple. She found thin, flexible vines, stripping away the leaves, testing their strength, their ability to be twisted and knotted. Some were pale green, others a muted brown, but none of them were right yet, not for a gift.

  She glanced at the glowing berries in her palm, cradling them like tiny jewels. The ordinary ones she ate were dull, functional, but these, the ones she had kept, the ones she had found scattered under a tree with glowing leaves, these were special. Deep red, soft blue, their colors vivid even in the daylight, pulsing faintly with an inner light she didn’t understand, but recognized as important, as unique.

  She pressed one of the red berries between her fingers, watching as the rich, dark juice bled into her skin, staining it a deep crimson.

  Color. Potent. Beautiful.

  Yes. She dipped the grasses and vines into the crushed pulp, rubbing the juice along their lengths, staining them with deliberate care. The blue berries, when crushed, yielded a deep, inky hue. She mixed the blue and red juices, rubbing the colored pulp along different strands of grass and vine, watching as the colors blended into something new, something deep and royal, purple.

  Her breath caught in her throat. It was beautiful. The dull greens and browns of the natural materials were transformed, imbued with vibrant, artificial color. It was a deliberate act of creation, making something stand out, making it visible and special.

  She worked with careful hands, dipping, rubbing, twisting the grasses and vines together as they dried slightly in the sun, ensuring the color seeped in. Once they were stained and slightly pliable, she began weaving. She did not know why she knew how. Maybe it was the way vines curled around branches, the way threads of a spider’s web wove intricate patterns in the trees. She followed that instinct, threading the blades over and under, knotting them with patient fingers until they formed a long, soft band. Not wide, not thick like her shelter walls. This was thin, flexible.

  Not like firewood, stacked and rough. Not like the den, built strong and sharp for protection. This was different. This was meant to be seen, to be worn. But where? She thought of the wolf, its thick fur, the way it did not need warmth like she did, how its fur was its covering, part of its being. Covering it would be wrong. The fur was part of it, like her own skin was part of her.

  But… She raised her fingers to her throat, brushing the hollow there. The neck. It was the only place something could rest on a body without changing it, without covering its essential form. The wolf's neck. A collar.

  Yes. She pressed the woven band against her palms, feeling its softness, its lightness. It was simple, but deliberately made, colored with the bright juices of the forest, a tangible representation of her intention.

  Now, the final touch. The light.

  She took the last of her glowing berries, holding them carefully. They pulsed faintly in her palm, like captured fireflies. She had protected them, carried them since she found them. Now, they had a purpose beyond sustenance. She pressed them gently into the weave of the band, tucking them between the braids, securing them with thin strands of vine so they would not fall. Red and blue glowing points against the deep purple band.

  A gift. A visible offering.

  She cradled it in her hands, something warm filling her chest. A sense of fulfillment, of having completed a task that felt profoundly right, even if she couldn’t articulate why.

  Now, she had to bring it. To the wolf. To the den.

  Athena moved carefully through the forest, stepping lightly over roots and damp earth. This time, she did not sneak. She did not hide behind bushes or creep along the edges of clearings. She walked with purpose, cautious but steady, her eyes forward, the colored collar a soft weight in her hands. Her mud camouflage, reapplied that morning, helped her blend into the environment, not to hide, but to show she was part of this place, moving through it, not against it.

  The sun was high when she reached the area of the den. The entrance to the hollow was empty. No wolf. No pups. They were likely out, moving through the forest, living their lives. But the scent was there, thick and fresh. Scratches along the dirt near the entrance. The slight indent where bodies had rested. They would return. This was their home.

  She stepped closer, stopping at the edge of the hollow, a respectful distance from the entrance. Her fingers tightened around the woven band, feeling the smooth leaves, the twisted vines, the gentle pulse of the glowing berries. The warmth inside her flickered, fear trying to push its way in, reminding her of before. The way she had frozen, the way the wolf’s eyes had locked onto hers.

  But, It had not harmed her. And she did not wish to harm it. This gift was a bridge, a gesture of peace and understanding, however rudimentary.

  She placed the collar at the den’s entrance, smoothing it gently against the earth, arranging it so the colors and the glowing berries were clearly visible. A deliberate act. A gift.

  The warmth returned, strong now, pushing against the cold in her chest, chasing it back. A sense of peace settled over her, a quiet certainty that she had done what she needed to do. She had acknowledged the wolf's territory, its protection of its young, and her own place as a temporary inhabitant of this valley.

  Temporary.

  She lingered for a moment, staring at the gift, at the dark entrance of the den, at the space where the wolf would return, where the pups were protected. It felt like a significant moment, a turning point.

  Then, she turned away, stepping back into the trees, leaving the gift behind. Her mind was already turning toward tomorrow. She had learned what she came to learn about the wolf and its world.

  The stream.

  She had followed it one way, upstream, towards the den, towards understanding a boundary. The thoughts of ehr time in the valley playing through her mind.

  What was in the other direction? What lay further downstream?

  What would she see?

  What would she learn?

  The thought thrilled her, sending a ripple of anticipation through her chest, bright and clear, chasing away the last vestiges of fear that had lingered in her chest.

  Her stay in the valley, the home she had made. Temporary. From the moment she had first seen the wolf, learned that she shared the valley with it, a part of her knew that she would have to leave. What better time was there to move?

  Tomorrow, she would prepare. The stream flowed onward, leading to the unknown. And her journey, her adventure, would follow.