Lycaons Howl

Resting in the soft grass beneath the Wolf Moon, Lycaon rises.

Without urgency, yet without hesitation, she turns and walks toward a towering stone formation. Moonlight spills across her fur as she climbs, step by deliberate step, until she reaches the highest point. There, she stands—still, watching, listening.

Then the silence breaks.

Lycaon’s howl tears through the night.

It is not a warning.
It is a call.

 Second call A call to those she loves who are still lost in the dark. To the ones she tried to lead toward the light, who fell behind to walk their own paths. Her voice thunders across the land, carried by the wind, reaching for them with hope—that they will hear and remember, and find their way back to the Pack.

As the call travels, the darkness around him recoils. It does not vanish, but it tightens and deepens, as if shrinking in the presence of such love. The trees answer first, their leaves trembling, passing the message from root to root, from forest to forest.

Just as suddenly as it began, the howl ends.

Silence returns—followed by the low roll of distant thunder.

The call has been made.

Lycaon descends from the stone, her gaze sweeping the land as though searching for a sign. her ears remain sharp, tuned for any answer carried on the wind.

None comes.

Only the rustle of trees.
Only the echo of thunder far away.

And so Lycaon waits.