Echoes Of War

| PROLOGUE |

A full moon hangs heavy over the forest, casting cold silver through the restless clouds that drift like ghosts across the sky. The light dances between the trees, flickering with every shifting breeze. Shadows stretch long and crooked over the ground, and a strange stillness blankets the land-soaked in silence, broken only by the slow, rhythmic breath of Summar.

Far off in the murky swamplands, the night sings-crickets chirping, frogs croaking in lazy harmony.

But it doesn't last.

A blur of motion-a flash of grey-rips through the undergrowth and a heartbeat later, the music dies.

A wolf explodes from the marshy brush, muscles straining, tongue lolling from sheer exhaustion. Mud clings to his legs, splashing up his sides with every desperate stride. Behind him, his companions thunder after him, their breaths ragged, their pace unrelenting.

No words are spoken. There's no need.

The air is already thick with something heavier than fear-expectation, consequence, dread. The kind that coils tight in your gut and makes the earth feel too soft beneath your paws, tension so thick one could swear lightning would strike at any moment.

Such a faith however, would be mercy compared to what awaits them.

The swamp falls behind, giving way to firmer soil and scattered pine. The outline of a fallen log-wide, twisted, unmistakable-comes into view, marking the threshold of camp. The moment the grey wolf sees it, his throat constricts. A knot twists in his belly, crawling upward like it wants to choke the air from his lungs.

He raises his tail-a silent command-and the others fall in step, their sprint easing into a slower trot. Their breaths still come hard, but they no longer run, falling into each other's steady rhythm. They've arrived.

Passing beneath the arching log, the clearing yawns open before them. Moon light cascades faintly through the densite's green walls, casting ominous shadows of trees and other wolves upon the ground, but it offers no comfort.

As they step forward, widened eyes instantly pin onto the group-watchful, sharp, unrelenting. the silver wolf feels every stare prickling like wildfire beneath his skin, crawling up the back of his neck and seeping into his marrow.

Unable to face his packmates, he merely bows his head, willing to block out the suspicious murmurs that rose from every corner. A shuddering breath leaves his sides, but the heat of his shame continues to cling to his fur-thick as mud.

In the center of the camp, he halts. One flick of his ear, and the others melt away without question, vanishing into the shadows like they were never there. This isn't their burden to carry. This failure is his-and his alone.

A few tails ahead of him, yawned the pitch darkness of a stone cave, where, somewhere inside, he knew his leader was silently watching.

At last, something stirs from inside. A scrape of claws on stone. Soft, deliberate. The sound of a predator who doesn't need to rush.

Farren lifts his gaze.

From the shadows steps a dark wolf. Towering. Regal. Dangerous. His presence coils like smoke in the lungs-silent, suffocating.

A long moment stretches between them, pulsing with unspoken judgment.

Then the leader steps fully into the clearing, his form bathed in moonlight.

"Well, Farren?" The words come soft-too soft. A velvet sheath hiding the claw.

Farren stiffens.

He knows better than to be lulled by that tone. He knows his leader expects the truth-but beyond that, he wishes to humiliate him.

"She escaped."

His voice breaks like old wood. Each word scraped over stone.

The leader tilts his head slightly, a silent judgement etched into the motion. Own it.

Farren's tail dips lower. "I lost her, sir."

The dark wolf says nothing. But silence has never been safer. It wraps around them like a noose. Farren feels it-pressure building behind the stillness, heat brewing beneath that unreadable stare.

"You lost... her?" the leader murmurs. Each word is cold enough to frost the air.

Farren swallows hard. "She masked her trail well. But she couldn't have gone far... not in her condition."

For a moment, something flickers in his leader's gaze. Not surprise-no. Something sharper. Hungrier.

"Where did her trail end?"

"East," Farren replies. "Most of the scent vanished in the marsh, but... I think she took shelter in the woods. Maybe deeper North."

His leader looks away, gaze sharpening on the treeline beyond camp. The anger there is silent, but palpable. A presence in the clearing. A storm held at bay only by sheer control.

Then he speaks.

"Send another team at first light." His voice cuts like steel, every syllable sharp. "Our best trackers. Our fiercest fighters. Take them all."

The order lands like thunder.

Every wolf freezes. The air itself seems to hold its breath. And then-he moves.

Slowly, with the inevitability of a tide rolling in, the dark wolf crosses the clearing. Each pawstep falls like the strike of thunder. When he stops at his side, Farren doesn't dare breathe.

The leader leans in, his voice dropping to a breathless growl. "Find her."

Farren nods quickly, heart stuttering behind his ribs. He turns, ready to finally flee the heat of that gaze when a final growl stops him cold.

"And Farren... Do not fail me again."

Not a warning. But a very clear threat.

-*-

Summar* : The Brave, guardian of Fire, vigor and Adolescence
Seasons are represented by the reign of four entities, seen as spirits. Summar for Summer, Falla for Autumn, Thushar for Winter and Masika for Spring.