Even with the coat of a Northerner, she couldn't ignore the bitterness of the biting frost. Nor could she ignore any other pestering sensations.
Grief. Such a strange and unwelcome old friend. The last time it had graced her with its presence was many moons ago when she was but a whelp. She longed for something she couldn't verbalize or imagine, yet the unsatiated instinct befouled many a night with her yearning cries.
The snow stretched in all directions, a vast, untouched expanse, and for a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of pretending. Pretending she was home. Pretending her father’s distant call would rise over the wind, summoning her back. Pretending that, if she turned her head just right, she would find Rowen’s paw prints pressed into the frost beside her own.
The snow had piled so high from the recent blizzard that what were once hills and crevasses became smooth, laden with white, flickering like stars under the moon's enchanting glow.
Takala exhaled, watching her breath rise and vanish into the night.
This place—Mythris—was nothing like home. The scents were wrong. The air felt thin and hollow, lacking the richness of the forests she once knew. But she had adapted, because adaptation was survival, and she had no intention of faltering. Whatever this land demanded of her, she would not only meet it, but exceed it. After all, she always had.
And yet…
The ache in her chest was not so easily dismissed. It settled there like a mountain, deep and unmoving, an immovable thing she refused to name. She had not lost anything. No, that was too final, too weak. She had stepped forward, as all wolves must, and there was no use glancing back. This was a new path, and she would carve it with the same resolve she had wielded time and time again.
Still, as the wind howled through the valley, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to let herself believe that when she opened them again, she would wake to the scent of pine and frost-covered stone, the warmth of familiar bodies curled beside her, and the sky lined with the constellations that once cradled her.
But when her icy gaze fluttered open, the snow stared back. Silent. Unyielding.
Takala huffed, shaking the frost from her coat. Enough of this. There was work to be done.
She stirred abruptly and pressed forward, leaving nothing behind but fading tracks in the snow.
Grief. Such a strange and unwelcome old friend. The last time it had graced her with its presence was many moons ago when she was but a whelp. She longed for something she couldn't verbalize or imagine, yet the unsatiated instinct befouled many a night with her yearning cries.
The snow stretched in all directions, a vast, untouched expanse, and for a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of pretending. Pretending she was home. Pretending her father’s distant call would rise over the wind, summoning her back. Pretending that, if she turned her head just right, she would find Rowen’s paw prints pressed into the frost beside her own.
The snow had piled so high from the recent blizzard that what were once hills and crevasses became smooth, laden with white, flickering like stars under the moon's enchanting glow.
Takala exhaled, watching her breath rise and vanish into the night.
This place—Mythris—was nothing like home. The scents were wrong. The air felt thin and hollow, lacking the richness of the forests she once knew. But she had adapted, because adaptation was survival, and she had no intention of faltering. Whatever this land demanded of her, she would not only meet it, but exceed it. After all, she always had.
And yet…
The ache in her chest was not so easily dismissed. It settled there like a mountain, deep and unmoving, an immovable thing she refused to name. She had not lost anything. No, that was too final, too weak. She had stepped forward, as all wolves must, and there was no use glancing back. This was a new path, and she would carve it with the same resolve she had wielded time and time again.
Still, as the wind howled through the valley, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to let herself believe that when she opened them again, she would wake to the scent of pine and frost-covered stone, the warmth of familiar bodies curled beside her, and the sky lined with the constellations that once cradled her.
But when her icy gaze fluttered open, the snow stared back. Silent. Unyielding.
Takala huffed, shaking the frost from her coat. Enough of this. There was work to be done.
She stirred abruptly and pressed forward, leaving nothing behind but fading tracks in the snow.
