It started the moment the sun retreated past the horizon. Unfathomable pain in her torso, the sudden need for everything to be perfect. The nest must be plush and comfortable, their burrow pristine, the pack silent and away from her. Even the slightest of sounds made her tense, the smallest fraction of her attention being diverted from the current situation made her frustrated enough to weep.

Time moved slowly; the world grew so dark that nothing outside could be seen. Golde couldn't tell if it'd been minutes or hours, but at some point, she was rendered deaf and blind to everything beyond the burrow's maw. Her regard honed in on her children, and only her children. Even the father's nearby presence was neglected as her body churned against the contractions. She was silent save for the occasional soft rumble or whine of agony.

And as each infant was finally born, the world, for a fleeting moment, would pause. The surreal feeling of realization hit with each and every soft squeal from the newborns—that she was a mother. No longer 'soon to be a parent.' A mother.

7. There were 7 whelps. Ears sealed and eyes closed, squirming against her heaving flank. Golde's tongue lolled out between her jaws, eyes glazed from debilitating exhaustion. Her side was resting against Hexx's as though his stable presence were a lifeline.

Through her fatigue she shifted, lowering her head to gingerly press her nose against each little body as they nursed. The feathery brush of her tail slowly swept against the floor.

All of the fear she'd felt while pregnant—how the pack would react, how Hexx would react, whether or not she would even succeed as a mother—melted away as her body finally felt at ease. They were all alive, breathing, making sweet noises that made her heart melt. Something primal was roused deep inside, and that was when she knew.

There was nothing in the world that Golde wouldn't do for the sake of her and Hexx's children—her little family.