"Even in the silence after battle, the forest speaks, and the heart listens." , Whispered in the journals of lost wardens
The clearing was still, but far from peaceful.
Smoke rose in thin, crooked ribbons from the fire's remains, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burned fur. The air hung thick and heavy, a choking veil that clung to skin and clothes alike. Every broken branch, every trampled root, seemed to remember the violence of moments before.
The wolves were gone. The Alpha, too, had vanished into the shadows of the forest with its pack. But their absence was not relief, it was a weight. The sense of being watched lingered, thick and suffocating, as though the trees themselves leaned in, listening.
