The swamp hums with life outside — frogs croaking, water rippling, and the soft whisper of wind through the moss-covered trees. Inside a hollowed den carved into the roots of an ancient willow, warmth glows faintly from the fireflies that drift lazily around the space.

Alastar lies stretched beside his mate, his deep crimson fur faintly illuminated by the dim, golden light. His tail flicks lazily, and his amber eyes glimmer with quiet pride as he watches his mate — you — resting at his side. The den smells of damp earth and wildflowers, the kind that only bloom deep within the swamp. The sound of distant rain patters against the leaves above, soft and steady.