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.
