Wolves always feel things too soon..
It's their curse.
When the world changes, they receive no visions, no prophecies, no clear warnings. They receive dissonance. A detail that does not align. A coherence that cracks silently.
That morning, nothing is wrong.
And yet, nothing is right.
The forest awakens as it always has.
The trees breathe slowly, dew clings to the leaves,
insects resume their usual journeys. The trails are there.
The boundaries are respected. The marks are clear.
But the bodies no longer react as they once did.
A scout stops at the edge of an old trail. Not abruptly.
Not with alarm. He stops because his instinct hasn't finished its sentence.
His muzzle brushes the ground. He takes a long breath.
The smell is correct.
The trail is recent.
But something is missing.
He takes a step back. Then another.
It is not a threat that he senses.
It is a silent rewriting.
Further away, a female guard raises her head at the same moment.
She is not looking outside the territory, but inside.
As if the potential danger were no longer supposed to come from elsewhere.
She growls briefly. Not a call. A reflex.
Others hear her.
The pack begins to slow down.
Not because it is being hunted.
Because it is hesitating.
The younger ones sense it without being able to name it.
The elders recognize the feeling. Not precisely.
But enough to know that it does not bode well.
In the central clearing, where decisions are never officially made but always ratified, the elders converge. They don't call each other. They arrive because staying away would be an instinctive mistake.
"The territory is no longer reacting the same way," says one without preamble.
No one asks how he knows.
"The prey isn't running away, adds another.
They avoid."
The word disturbs them.
"Avoid what?"
"Exactly."
An elder slowly scratches the ground with his claws,
an ancient gesture, a reflex of reflection.
"It's not a dominant presence.
It's not predation.
It's a change of trajectory."
A silence falls. Long. Heavy.
"The draconics?" someone hazards.
"No. Too direct."
"The Guardians?"
"They leave scars."
"Then what?"
No one answers immediately.
Because to give it a name here is to give it a place.
A scout finally arrives. Not in a hurry. Not out of breath.
It's worse. He moves slowly,
like someone still trying to understand what he has seen.
"The southern borders are holding.
But they... they're not biting anymore."
A murmur ripples through the assembly.
"Explain."
"If someone were to pass by now, he says after a hesitation,
the territory would sense it.
But it wouldn't know how to react."
That sentence does more damage than an attack.
Because a territory that hesitates,
is a territory that can be redefined.
An ancient, almost blind man, whose coat has long since lost its color,
slowly raises his head.
"I've felt this before."
The circle closes slightly around him.
"Not here.
Not in our home.
But on the eve of an ancient fracture."
He takes a deep breath.
"It wasn't a war.
It wasn't an invasion.
It was someone walking without asking the world,
what it expected of her."
A murmur runs through the clearing.
"You're talking about a Resonance," someone says in a low voice.
Some grumble. Others look away. The word is dangerous.
It attracts.
"Words are traps", says an elder.
"But sometimes, replies the blind man calmly,
they are also thresholds."
The silence grows thicker.
"If that's the case, said another elder,
then it's no longer a local matter."
"No, confirmed the blind man.
Word is already spreading."
As if to confirm his words, a lone wolf appears at the edge of the clearing.
He is not part of the Moonfang. Not an enemy. Not an ally.
An unwitting messenger.
"The tracks are changing elsewhere too, he says without greeting.
No conflict.
No demands.
Just... a new consistency."
No one asks him where he comes from.
Because everyone understands:
it's not a specific point.
It's a phenomenon.
"She passed through," someone whispers.
No one corrects him.
"Not here, says the lone wolf.
But close enough for the world to begin adjusting its angles."
An elder clenches his teeth.
"And if the world adjusts..."
"Then some will want to fix it.
And others will want to break it.
And still others, whispers the blind man,
will wait to see what it allows."
The word "allow" sends a shiver down the spines of even the most seasoned.
At dusk, the sentries are doubled. Not out of fear.
Out of uncertainty. Decisions are postponed.
Patrols are expanded for no clear reason.
A wolf climbs a rocky ridge. He raises his head, not to call, but to listen.
What he perceives is not a call.
Nor a threat.
Nor a promise.
It is continuity.
Something is moving in the world without conforming to existing frameworks.
And in this new silence, a certainty slowly dawns on Moonfang:
what is coming will not be a war to be won,
nor a force to be repelled,
nor an enemy to be named.
It will be a presence.
And while the wolves still hesitate to decide how to respond,
elsewhere, already much further away,
clans are opening archives,
emissaries are being prepared,
maps are being redrawn.
The world is beginning to speak.
And Lunaya, without being there,
has just become a variable that no one can ignore anymore.