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 are the Youngbloods. One nips at another’s flank, but a glance from her reminds them. Among them move the Broodmothers, steady. Scarflank now guards the heart.

Farther back are sentinels. Three Trotter and Cloudy-Eyes both lift their snouts to read the air.

Out of view beyond them is Shadowfang, who walks last—by choice, and by oath.

There is no dominance, only design.

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 unspoken vows—what we once knew, then forgot.

They fade over the ridge into an ellipsis…