The dawn was gentle, shy even, as if the world itself was still learning to breathe again. The heavy weight of war had finally lifted from the land, leaving behind a quietness so profound it almost felt sacred. I stood at the edge of the forest, where the trees gave way to rolling fields bathed in the soft, golden light of morning. The pack was slowly waking, laughter and familiar voices drifting on the breeze like a balm for my tired soul.
It had been months since the fighting ceased — months since blood stained our lands and fear ruled the nights. Yet the scars remained, invisible to outsiders but etched deeply in the hearts of those who had survived. I could see it in their eyes, in the way they carried themselves: wary, cautious, fragile. Like warriors who had laid down their weapons but still stood alert, listening for shadows that might never come.
