A blizzard howls across the high plateau.

The pack moves single file across the powder, each paw falling where the last has broken trail, stitching the land. THE MATRIARCH sets the pace. Her gait is uneven. One shoulder has stiffened over many winters. She does not hide it; she leads with it. The pack moves at her rhythm. What she lacks in speed, she holds in memory of dens, thawed riverbeds, and abundance.

She pauses. A younger one draws close, lowering its head in quiet deference. She flicks her tail once and continues.

Not far behind, the YOUNGBLOODS. Still learning the formation. One nips at another's ear. A glance from the Matriarch reminds them: this is not play. This is rehearsal.

At the center, the BROODMOTHERS. Heavy with what they carry, slowed by what they grow. When the pups can run, they will return to the perimeter. For now, they are held in the safest place: the heart of the line.

SCARFLANK walks beside them. Half his face is a seam of old wounds. Nothing approaches the center without passing him.

Farther back are sentinels. THREE TROTTER, who lost his foreleg to a trap three winters past, and CLOUDY-EYES, vision dimmed by age. Both lift their snouts to read the air. Between them, nothing approaches unsensed.

Last in the line, out of view: SHADOWFANG. He is the largest of them. The strongest. Jaws that have ended threats the pack never saw coming. He could walk at the front. He could lead. He walks last. Because anything that wants to ambush must come through him first. The rear is where the teeth belong.

A wind rises from the west, carrying the cry of an elk.

Still.

A silent alignment. They flow again, through dusk and the long memory of ancestors.

The ground keeps record of their passage, what we once knew, then forgot. There is no dominance, only design.

They fade over the ridge into an ellipsis...