In the heart of the ancient forest—where light barely dares to reach, and time forgets its name—a spirit endures, silent and fierce. It is no mere creature of flesh, but the embodiment of all that is sacred and untamed, the echo of primeval whispers woven through the branches, the keeper of stories never spoken aloud.
The wolf appears as shadow made flesh, its obsidian coat marked with symbols of ancestors long past—circles, bloodstains, sacred glyphs etched into fur and bone. Behind it looms the red moon—not light, but flame; not illumination, but invocation. It is the night of awakening, when the forest's soul rises not with sound, but with presence so heavy it silences the stars.
Its howl is no ordinary cry. It is a lament for what has been lost, a warning for those who forget their roots, and a hymn of mourning for the spirit of the wild. It does not rise from the throat but from the soul—a soul forged in the forge of a thousand years of shadow, of watchful guardianship in forgotten dark.
In the sigh of leaves, in the heartbeat of wind slipping through bare branches, the spirit lingers—not needing eyes to see it, nor praise to affirm its power.
For the one who guards the deep forest seeks no understanding—only reverence.
