Echoes Of War

CHAPTER VIII | THE WORLD AS IT WAS BEFORE

A strong wind rushes past her ears, carrying with it the faint murmur of promises too soft to name. Her sleek pelt lies flat against her lean frame, each hair rippling under the warm current. Paws drum the earth in a steady, instinctive rhythm. She leaps over boulders, dances between gnarled roots, the forest’s rich scents swirling on her tongue like a heady, intoxicating perfume.

Freedom. Absolute freedom.

Eyes closed, she surrenders to instinct. Her body moves as if it belongs to the forest itself, weaving through the terrain like a trout cutting the current. Crisp air floods her lungs, burning sharp and clean, washing through her mind like a mountain stream. Each breath drives the shadows from her thoughts, leaving only clarity, peace—purpose.

Lunis.

The voice threads into her mind as softly as silk, yet with the weight of something inevitable. Her paws skid to a halt, claws carving furrows in the soil. Every muscle locks, senses flaring like sparks on dry tinder.

Ears swivel. Nostrils flare. The wind shifts, brushing her whiskers with a touch too deliberate to be chance. Was it only the forest playing tricks?

No. The pull in her chest is too strong—an anchor sinking deep, urging her to listen.

Lunis.

The voice comes again, closer now, vibrating through her skull as if spoken directly into her thoughts.

She whirls around, teeth bared, earth scattering beneath her paws—

—and finds herself staring into a ghost she has met more times than she can count.

The figure’s coat gleams like silver forged under moonlight, each hair shimmering with an otherworldly sheen. Snow-pale eyes glow without warmth, like distant winter stars. They hold her fast, and for a moment she forgets to breathe. A cold weight presses onto her shoulders, sinking through her skin and into her bones.

Neither moves. The forest stills, locked in a breathless pause.

At last, the white Huntress growls, her voice low and edged like the bite of frost.

“Who’s there?”

The air shifts.

Then—silence shatters.

The world erupts around her in a storm of sound and shadow. Howls of agony split the night, jagged and merciless, while flashes of dark fur whip through the gloom like blades in the wind. Shapes slam together with bone-jarring force, twisting into a maelstrom of teeth and claws, their rage painted in streaks of scarlet and clumps of torn fur.

Lunis can only stare—frozen, breath caught in her throat. Her eyes dart wildly from one savage collision to the next, each too fast, too brutal to make sense of. The earth quivers beneath her paws. The air tastes of iron. The world spins in dizzying loops, swallowed by the frenzy.

Panic surges, sharp and blinding.

Breathe, Lunis. Breathe... Stay calm... It’ll pass.

But it doesn’t.

The cries continue—raw, unyielding, drilling deep into her chest. Blood saturates the air, heavy and clinging, coating her tongue with every breath. The ground still shudders beneath her, each vibration a silent drumbeat of violence. Above, crows carve circles into the dark sky, their voices threading the chaos with a shrill, mocking dirge.

And then—through the haze, she sees her.

A pale she-wolf locked in a savage grapple with a towering male. Cream fur now streaked with crimson, her sides heave with the strain, her body a patchwork of gashes and bite marks. Each clash sends flecks of blood spattering the ground, her snarls slicing through the night like the last defiant cries of a cornered soul.