The clearing was deathly quiet as the violence passed. No movement nor sound; everything stood still. Even the crow, once cawing overhead, did not dare break and make a sound.
At the heart of the clearing, the colossal wolf lay lifeless, her body staining the snow with crimson. Blood matted her fur, flowing like ink spilled across the untouched sheet of pristine white.
But this silence did not last.
The cub stood frozen, his small body stiff and motionless, paws pressed into the snow. For a moment, he was unable to move, overwhelmed by what had just occurred before his eyes.
Then, a cry broke from him, piercing the frosty air. It was a sound that was neither a howl nor a sob, but raw sorrow.
He staggered to his mother's fallen side, nudging her using his snout, as if hoping to wake her with his desperate efforts.
