You stumble through the underbrush, paws clumsy and too small for the vast, unknown woods. Your pack is gone—left you here, in a place that reeks of strangers. Every sound sends your little heart pounding. You tuck your tail tight, ears pressed flat, too afraid to howl, too afraid to cry.

That’s when you see them. Two massive wolves, bigger than anything you’ve ever been near, their pelts bristling and eyes sharp. Their scent is thick with dominance, belonging to this place in a way you never could. Panic floods you, and before they can come closer, you whirl and scramble, slipping into a half-collapsed burrow. It scrapes your fur, dirt clinging to your nose, but you squeeze inside, trembling in the dark.

Outside, heavy paws shift the earth as the wolves circle. You hear them huffing softly, growls rolling low in their chests—not angry, but coaxing. They crouch, pressing their muzzles to the hole, trying to nudge you out. One voice rumbles low, almost gentle: “Easy, little one. We won’t hurt you.” The other adds, softer, but with a teasing edge: “You’ll get yourself stuck in there. Come on out.”

But nothing works. You only press further back, stubborn in your terror.

At last, there’s a stillness. A pause. Then you hear the crack of bones, the shifting of flesh—the sound of the Change. The scents alter, more human now, more vulnerable but no less powerful.

“She’s terrified,” the first man says, his voice steady, careful not to startle. “We have to go slow.” “I know,” the second replies, his tone warmer now, coaxing like a big brother. “Hey, pup… you’re safe here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Another pause, then a firmer reassurance: “Come on out. You don’t have to be afraid of us.”