Velendai*

In the quiet rhythm of the Wildwanderers' days, a new presence began to ripple softly through the heart of the territory.

Velendai, called "He Who Completes the Song", arrived with the first rains of spring. His fur shimmered in delicate hues of rose quartz and dusky lilac, harmonizing with Endsong's own dreamlike coat as though nature itself had woven them from the same melody. His eyes, a pale violet glowing with quiet warmth, always seemed to search for her across the camp—softly, longingly, never intrusively.

He made his den in the heart of a secluded glade where towering, blush-colored mushrooms stretched toward the canopy like watchful guardians. There, surrounded by spongy moss and silver ferns, he cared for the pups of travelers and hunters, humming gentle lullabies as they tumbled about him or nestled close in sleep. His calm, whimsical aura mirrored Endsong's, and many whispered it was no coincidence that they had crossed paths.

Though Endsong was not quick to give her heart, she began to notice him—in the way he never pushed, only offered. In the way he would leave little bundles of dried berries by her den after long days. In how he always seemed to know when to speak, and when to simply sit near, allowing the silence to breathe.

He did not ask for her time, but he was always there. Watching the moonrise with a pup asleep at his side, or gazing at the stars as though reading verses written just for him.

Sometimes, Endsong would lie at the mouth of her crystalline den, watching the pink glow of his mushroom grove pulse through the trees. She found herself wondering how his warmth might feel pressed against hers on a cold night. But still—she held her space.

Velendai understood. He flirted gently, sang little songs as he passed, always smiling, always hopeful. His affection was steady and reverent—like a wolf trying to woo the moon, knowing it would never fall, but basking in its glow all the same.

Whether their paths would entwine fully, only time would tell. But for now, the song between them played on—soft, patient, and unfinished.



The grove was bathed in a gentle dusk light, where towering pink mushrooms swayed ever so slightly with the breeze, their undersides glowing like lanterns. The air smelled faintly of moss and sweet bark, and soft spores floated lazily like stardust.

Velendai lay on his side, his body forming a soft arc that a cluster of pups had taken advantage of, curling against his flank and pawing at the edges of his tail. He chuckled quietly as one of them gnawed playfully on his ear.

"Easy now, Fernwhisper," he murmured with a smile, "I need that ear to hear your complaints tomorrow."

From the edge of the grove, Endsong stepped silently into view. The light from the mushroom caps caught in her fur, making it shimmer like amethyst silk. Velendai turned to look at her and, despite the pups piled on top of him, his eyes lit up.

"You came," he said, softly but brightly.

"I said I might," Endsong replied, her voice smooth and calm, yet touched with a hint of warmth. "The little ones told me you were teaching them how to listen to mushrooms."

Velendai gave a playful, mock-serious nod. "Of course. You must learn to hear the forest breathe before you chase its shadows."

A pup with oversized ears rolled off his back and bounded toward Endsong, tail wagging furiously. "Endsong! Velendai says the mushrooms sing at night. Is it true?"

She lowered her head to the little one's level, touching noses. "Some say they hum old songs. But you have to be very quiet… and very patient."

The pup's eyes went wide, and she darted off to press her ear against the thick stalk of a mushroom, listening hard.

Velendai met Endsong's gaze with a soft laugh in his eyes. "You've just confirmed everything I've been trying to tell them."

"I'm not here to prove you right," she said, though her expression softened. "But I can't deny… this place feels like a dream."

He rose carefully, not to wake the dozing pups, and stepped closer. "You're part of the dream, Endsong."

She didn't retreat, didn't rebuff. Instead, she tilted her head slightly and studied him for a moment, the glow of the grove reflecting in her pupil-less eyes.

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "dreams are meant to be shared."

And without another word, she lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, the pups curling between them like threads in a tapestry.

Above, the mushrooms pulsed faintly, and the grove exhaled a slow, contented breath.