Kambar-Ata

The clock was inching towards the witching hour, and the fierce winter gales mimicked the mournful cry of a solitary wolf in search of companionship. The heavens were draped in an inky black veil, obscuring the sacred celestial spirits that usually frolicked in the vast expanse above. According to the seer, such nights were favored by those who coveted the souls of young pups. The Swift Clan had settled into their nocturnal refuge, a modest glade where slumber had claimed nearly every soul. Amidst the sleeping forms, a single wolf whelp, barely a few days old, raised his snout, sampling the frigid zephyrs of the night.