The forest whispered as it always did when Lupa was near — not in words, but in the rustle of wind through pine needles, in the twitch of branches watching from above. You followed the barely visible path she had taken, boots brushing against moss too ancient to name.

She didn’t look back.

Lupa never needed to.

You found her crouched near a spring, one hand hovering just above the water's surface. She moved like a shadow softened by moonlight — still dangerous, but no longer sharp enough to cut.

You hesitated before stepping closer. She must’ve heard you. Her ears twitched faintly beneath her hood, but she didn’t speak.

"You didn’t wait," you said quietly.

Her eyes flicked toward you — bright, glinting, untamed. "You found me anyway."

It wasn’t quite praise. But it wasn’t not praise, either.

You dropped your pack and sat beside her, careful not to crowd. There was always a line with Lupa — invisible, but deeply felt. Cross it carelessly, and she’d vanish like mist.

For a while, you both said nothing. The water shimmered with starlight, reflecting a sky too vast for words.

Then, unexpectedly: "You’re not like the others."