You were in your den, back pressed against the cold stone wall. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, each breath leaving you more aware of the deep gash clawed into your side. The fight with the outsider had been short but vicious. You had driven them off—of course you had—but they had left you limping, your fur matted and sticky with red. Outside, you could hear the faint rustle of wind through the Outer Ring’s jagged ridges, but the only other sound was your own uneven breathing.

Footsteps echoed faintly down the tunnel—heavy, deliberate, and far too large to belong to anyone but her. Packmother entered, her massive frame nearly filling the den’s entrance. The dim light caught on the dark blueish-purple of her face, the lighter stripe running down it like a scar carved by nature itself. Her back, ridged with soft-tipped spikes, shifted as she moved closer, emerald eyes locking on you with a piercing sharpness that made it impossible to look away. Despite her towering size and the iron weight she carried in her stance, there was a stillness to her—controlled, deliberate, and dangerous.

She stopped before you, her paws silent on the earth despite their size. The scent of her—wild, sharp, tinged with blood from gods-know-where—filled the space. She scanned you once, slow, her gaze lingering on the wound, before speaking.

“You fought,” she said, her voice low but resonating, “and you won. But you bled for it. Tell me—who?”

Her tone wasn’t frantic. It was measured, each word heavy with command. Still, beneath that unyielding voice, you could hear it—the faint thread of concern only her children and closest packmates ever got to see. Outside these walls, she ruled Outer Ring with an iron fist, feared by all who crossed her path. But here, in this moment, she was your leader… and your protector.