Echoes Of War

CHAPTER I | THE HUNT

A steady fire thrums in the she-wolf's heart, each beat a measured drum of purpose.
Paws sink into the soil, claws flexing for grip, sinew coiling beneath her pelt-taut, primed, alive with the promise of release. The world beyond melts into a hush, leaving only the cadence of her breath and the drumbeat of her blood. Every sound sharpens, every scent threads itself into the tapestry of the hunt.

Nothing rivals this—the ache of patience balanced on the claw's edge of instinct.
Keeping low within the swaying veil of grass, her sky-blue gaze pins the quarry: a weathered elk, limping with the slow drag of age and the weight of a thousand miles. Injured, yes, but she knows better than to let her guard waver. A bull of this size is no easy prize. One wrong step, and those antlers could drive clean through flesh, crush ribs, shatter bone. Even a single kick could leave a wolf broken in the dirt, its skull caved beneath iron hooves. This hunt will demand flawless coordination, the patience of shadows, and the precision of a killing strike. Only then will the pack bring it down. Only then will they feast-blood warm, bellies full, the victory etched deep into their bones.

Already, Lunis feels her mouth water at the thought of her canines sinking deep into fresh, hot meat, the tang of blood flooding her tongue. The hunger claws at her, urging her forward, but she forces it back with a sharp breath. One slow blink, and she drags herself out of the haze of want, tethering her mind to the present, to the rhythm of the hunt.

Raising her snout, she drinks in the scents carried on the wind, letting them swirl and settle on her tongue. Earthy musk mingles with the sweetness of grass, and the crisp bite of the air sends a shiver along her spine.
Falla's* breath rides the breeze-his arrival is near, inevitable. And after him, the true challenge will descend: Thushar. With him comes the shroud of the season-snowfall heavy enough to bury trails, mornings glazed with frost, and the bitter cold that seeps deep into bone. The land will be locked in silence beneath his reign, prey driven into hiding, vanishing under the weight of ice and hunger.

If they are to survive, the pack must claim every scrap of food, every morsel of strength. Every mouth must be fed, every paw ready to run when the herds flee before the storm's teeth. Their survival hangs on this moment-on whether they bring the bull down... or starve beneath Thushar's shadow.

Grass whispers against her belly as the she-wolf's focus narrows on the amber-furred wolf creeping a few tail-lengths ahead-the leader of their hunting party. At their flanks, two others slip through the grass, one draped in dark brown, the other cloaked in pitch-black shadow, their eyes alight with the same fierce anticipation thrumming through her veins.

Step by silent step, the four wolves advance, each movement measured, each breath controlled, their formation a slow, deliberate tightening of the noose.

The auburn male halts without a sound, his tail lifting in a silent command. His ears flick, catching a faint stir in the grass ahead-prey on the move.

Lowering himself until his belly nearly brushes the earth, he lets a low growl ripple from his throat, the sound soft but edged with urgency.

"Stay low," he murmurs, voice barely a breath in the wind. "Here they come."
Following her leader's gaze, Lunis's eyes find the movement on the far side of the clearing-three wolves slipping through the grass with deliberate precision. At the head of the trio, a young, sand-colored male moves with the grace of one born to hunt, each step measured, confident. She lingers on him, watching the way his shoulders roll beneath his pelt, the way his paws barely disturb the earth. Pride warms her chest, swelling until it nearly pushes past the calm she's forced to hold.

This is his first hunt leading his own group, yet he carries himself like a Delta seasoned by many of Thushar's reigns.

With her belly skimming the earth, Lunis holds herself utterly still. In the lush green of the taiga, her snowy-white frame is a beacon if she falters-but she has long since mastered the art of stillness. She becomes a stone beneath the grass, a shadow between the blades, her breath folding into the rhythm of the wind. In her mind, she dissolves into the field itself, becoming the breeze, the grass, the earth-just as she has countless times before, until even the forest might forget she exists.