"Even in stillness, the forest speaks; and every whisper carries a choice." , Fragmented proverb of the Lost Rangers
Mist hung low over the clearing, thick and restless, curling around broken branches and trampled undergrowth like a living spirit. Dawn's pale light softened the forest's harsher angles, turning jagged roots and blackened stones into vague silhouettes, but the forest itself seemed unchanged, alive, observing, judging. Every droplet of dew that clung to the moss felt like a watching eye; every faint rustle of leaves seemed purposeful, deliberate.
Leo sat apart from the group, knees drawn to his chest, his shoulder still throbbing where the Alpha's fangs had torn through his tunic. Sweat and dried blood streaked his face, mingling with the faint green glow of the fragment beneath his skin. Its pulse was subtle, almost contemplative now, but no less insistent: They fear you. They respect you. They are yours if you choose.
