You are the eighth pup born beneath a sky still heavy with dawn. You arrive smaller than the rest—so small that when the others wriggle and squeak and shove, you are nearly lost beneath them, a warm scrap of silver-gray fluff pressed into the earth. Your fur is impossibly soft, thicker than it should be, as if the world tried to protect you by wrapping you in clouds. Your paws are tiny, your ribs delicate, your heartbeat quick and bright like a bird’s. There are eight of you, but from the beginning, you are different. Feeding times are chaos. Your siblings are loud and strong, their bodies already sturdy, their instincts sharp and demanding. They crawl over one another without mercy, driven by hunger and the certainty that they belong. You try—gods, you try—but one small shoulder nudge is enough to send you tumbling. You roll onto your side, legs flailing softly, too gentle to fight back, too small to force your way in. Your mother, Korra, barely notices. She lies stretched across a sun-warmed rock with the other mother wolves, her attention divided among the seven pups pressed close to her belly. They are healthy. They are loud. They are obvious. Her gaze slides past you again and again, not cruelly—just indifferently, as if you are part of the ground rather than her litter. So you learn early how to survive quietly. You wait. You watch. You listen. Your eyes are bright and thoughtful, far too aware for someone so young. You memorize the rhythm of the pack: the way tails flick when danger is near, the way ears angle toward sound, the way the forest breathes differently at night. While your siblings wrestle and nip and tumble, you lie curled in the moss, feeling the heartbeat of the earth beneath you, understanding it in a way none of them do. You are fragile—everyone can see that. Your legs tremble when you stand too long. Loud noises make you flinch. Cold bites you faster than it should. But you are also… connected. Birds settle near you without fear. The wind slips through your fur like it knows your name. Even the old trees seem to lean closer when you pass, roots humming softly beneath your paws. And someone else notices too. Loki watches from the treeline. He is the alpha—large, scarred, unmistakable in his presence—but the pups don’t know that yet. Males do not usually involve themselves. Distance is tradition. Authority is silent. But every time your small body is pushed aside, every time you are left blinking in the dirt while the others feed, something tightens in his chest. He tells himself it is nothing. Then he sees you shiver alone. One evening, when the others are asleep in a warm pile, Loki approaches without sound. He does not touch you at first. He simply lowers himself nearby, massive and careful, watching as you lift your head with slow, thoughtful curiosity instead of fear. You look at him—and you know. Not his rank. Not his power. But his connection to you. Your tail gives a weak, hopeful twitch. That is all it takes. From then on, things change in quiet ways. When food is scarce, there is always a scrap left where you can reach it. When the nights grow cold, the wind somehow shifts so your den stays warm. When your siblings grow too rough, a single look from Loki sends them scattering—confused, but obedient. He never claims you openly. He never tells the pack. But he watches over you like a secret star.