Night Wolf Ashnir collapsed upon the meadow, his ash-grey fur soaked in the red hush of blood.

The wind whispered over him as if already mourning. He looked like death waiting.

Once, he had stood tall—a proud sentinel of the wild. Born of legend, heir to the Wolf King God, a mantle passed down through claw and fang. His silver mane shimmered like moonlight on stone, a crown of glory... and a mark of doom.

The hunters came, drawn by the lust for his coat. They conspired with nets and greed, seeking to tame him, to sell what could never be owned. And now, Ashnir had escaped only to collapse beneath the open sky, welcomed by the earth, cradled by dusk.

His freedom had cost him everything. He closed his eyes, wearied to the bone, and waited for the night to come— not as kin, but as a keeper. When his eyes opened again, the world had not changed.

Blue sky. White cloud. The sweet, whispering scent of grass. He had not expected to wake. He had not expected mercy. Least of all—from prey. A snow-white rabbit had come, wandering like a ghost through the tall blades. It had stopped beside him, small and trembling, and pressed herbs to his wound with clumsy care. Ashnir, heir of the night-born line, had never seen a creature so pale and soft. It dazzled him, for just a breath—a creature of snow in a world of blood.

But pride turned his head away. He would not thank it. He was a wolf. He was Ashnir. “I did not eat it,” he thought. “That is my thanks.” The rabbit, untouched by titles and gods, asked for nothing in return. It knew only this: the wolf had not harmed it. And that was enough. Still, it feared him—how could it not? And yet... Ashnir did not move. And so, the rabbit returned. Each day it came, shy paws brushing through the green. Each day it brought offerings: dewdrops folded in leaves, berries from the thicket, sweet fruits it could barely carry. It laid them before the still giant who had once been a hunter.

Ashnir scoffed in silence. He would not lower himself to dine on the kindness of prey. He turned his nose from the fruit and curled his lip at the berries. “Does it think me pitiful?” he growled inside. “Does it think me tamed?” But he drank the water—only when the rabbit had gone. He did not scatter the gifts, though he pretended not to see them. Something deep within him—still raw, still wrapped in memory—could not bring itself to reject the gesture. He called it routine.

Not weakness. Never gratitude. Still, the rabbit came. And in the hush of those twilight hours, something unspoken took root. No words. No oaths. Just breath and heartbeat. Caution and quiet. A wolf and a rabbit. Not friends. Not enemies. Not yet anything at all.

Day by day, the night wolf Ashnir’s wound gradually healed, but his strength seemed to slip further away. He spent most of his time asleep, stirring only for brief moments. When he did, he would fix his eyes on the little white rabbit who had stubbornly stayed by his side.

The rabbit filled the silence with stories—light, breathless tales of sunlit meadows, distant rivers swollen with spring melt, and strange creatures it had glimpsed beyond the trees. It danced and bounced as it spoke, full of wonder and excitement. Ashnir said nothing. He only watched, his eyes following every hop and word, as though the rabbit’s voice were the last thread tethering him to the world.

Outside the forest was a nightmare Ashnir never wanted to recall. But for the white rabbit, it was a novel, fascinating world—full of unknowns and adventure. Whenever Ashnir sensed the rabbit’s excitement, the contrast would ignite something bitter inside him. He would growl, sharp and sudden, to scare the rabbit away.

Each time, it worked. The rabbit would freeze, tearful and trembling, frightened by the violence in his voice. And each time, Ashnir would turn away, more frustrated with himself than the creature he had frightened.

He had once been a proud wolf—not a pride born of arrogance but of strength, solitude, and purpose. That pride had not been taken by chains, nor broken by wounds. But now, he was like a candle swaying in the wind and rain—fragile, flickering, and on the verge of being extinguished.

Then one day, something changed.

Ashnir stirred with a fire he hadn’t felt in a long time. He could no longer bear the slow decay, the growing cowardice. He was the king of the forest—had the world forgotten? He would remind it.

He opened his jaws. His sharp, decisive fangs moved closer to the little rabbit’s neck. Just one bite. One moment. He could end this softness, shed this weakness. That was the way back to who he was.

I am still myself, he thought. Still proud. Still alone.

But even as he told himself that, he couldn’t tell if it was the truth—or a lie meant to stir something that no longer lived inside him.

In the end, he failed.

He couldn’t do it.

He had become a loser. A broken shadow. And he couldn’t bear to face that truth. Even though the wound on his paw had not yet healed, he rose and limped away from the forest.

Not in triumph.

But in retreat.

It was a proud wolf, once.

Now it walked alone.

As they left the forest, the wolf Ashnir felt something like relief.

For a fleeting moment, it considered surrendering to fate—wandering into the sheepfold, feasting once, and then letting the hunters end it.

But it didn’t.

Because before death could come from without, Ashnir had already scented it within.

That scent—faint but unmistakable—was of red flowers. The kind animals feared most.

Now they were blooming.

Trees had fallen. The ground burned black.

And the animals were fleeing, panicked and wild, abandoning the forest behind them.

Night wolf Ashnir waited a long time at the edge of the forest.

Smoke curled into the sky, thick and black, stinging its eyes until they overflowed with tears. Still, it stared into the ruins, trying to see what remained.

At last, it rose.

Its body ached, its limbs unsteady—but it limped forward, back into the forest that no longer knew its name.

Back into the place that had changed beyond recognition.

Suddenly, Ashnir remembered something it had once overheard from the hunters.

They believed in reincarnation—that even in death, one might find their way back, might meet again those they had lost.

At the time, it had scoffed at such foolishness. Human nonsense.

But now, for reasons it couldn’t explain, the memory returned—soft, persistent, like a whisper carried on the smoke.

If life truly has reincarnation...

Then maybe—it’s not such a stupid idea after all.

Night wolf Ashnir died.

It had used the last of its strength to make it out of the forest.

With a final, staggering step, it collapsed.

The small rabbit it had carried gently in its jaws tumbled to the ground beside it.

Its fur was singed in places, scorched by the fire—but it was alive. Not badly hurt.

Ashnir had made sure of that.

The little rabbit stayed beside Ashnir’s body for a long time, crying in its own quiet way.

No one had ever seen a rabbit so sorrowful.

Even the hunters who came to battle the flames could not bring themselves to harm it.

Something in its grief stilled their hands—as if they, too, could feel the weight of the bond that had been broken.

Night wolf Ashnir was a proud wolf—

who was, and is, still.

THE END