Chapter Three: The Eyes of Dawn

Atticus approached the work building just before sunrise, the horizon a sliver of pale gold barely brushing the treetops. The forest was still, save for the occasional rustle of wind through the pines, and the scent of damp earth hung heavy in the air. In his hands, he carried a small basket of better food—fresh meat, clean water, and a few scraps of fruit he hoped she might like.

The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, and he froze.

She was sitting upright, her body perfectly still, ears pricked, eyes fixed on the door. Her gaze was sharp, predatory—but there was something more, something aware and intelligent that made him hesitate. He noted the dishes from yesterday; empty. She had eaten. That was a good sign.

And yet… something primal tightened his chest. Was she going to attack? Only for a moment did fear flicker, quickly replaced by a strange certainty, deep in the back of his mind, that she wouldn’t hurt him. Slowly, he stepped forward, placing the basket down on the floor.

She let out a low, deliberate growl, smooth and resonant, and Atticus froze again.

“Easy girl,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. “I just want to check your wounds…”

He studied her eyes then, and his breath caught. Deep purple. The exact same shade as his own. Odd. He had never met another living creature—or human—with eyes like his. His hand inched toward the bandages he had applied yesterday. The growl rose a notch, soft but warning, yet she shifted her nose upward in what seemed like reluctant consent.

Carefully, he peeled back the bandage. The wounds looked… better. Much better than he had any right to expect in so short a time. The suspicion gnawed at him. Could they really heal that fast? His fingers traced along the edge of the fur as he examined the skin beneath, and he froze again at the softness, the warmth, and the scent.

Honey. Sunshine. He shook his head, brow furrowing. How could fur smell like sunshine?

Her head snapped down, eyes locking onto his. Heart stuttering—not fear, not exactly—but something unfamiliar, a shock of recognition that set every nerve alight. Unblinking, her gaze held his, intense and disconcerting.

A sudden crash tore through the stillness. The door slammed open as two wolves skidded inside—one black, one timber-colored. Her body tensed instantly, hackles rising, teeth bared—but not at Atticus. Her attention was fixed on the intruders.

Atticus instinctively moved aside, heart racing. Despite her female form, she was larger, more imposing than the other two. With a low growl and a single, precise lunge, she forced them back toward the doorway. Both wolves hesitated, then scrambled outside, tails tucked, ears flattened.

She paused at the threshold, glancing back at him for a fraction of a second, a deliberate, measured look. Then, without hesitation, she pounded after the others, disappearing into the morning woods.

“Wait!” Atticus called after her, voice thick with confusion and a pull he couldn’t explain.

But why? He had released wild animals before. They’d come and gone as they pleased. Yet this… this wasn’t ordinary. Not even 24 hours had passed since she had arrived, yet her wounds had healed unnaturally fast. That gaze. That scent. The way she had let him approach, had let him touch her…

And now she was gone.

Atticus sank to the floor, chest tight, the basket of uneaten food at his side. His mind reeled. How could an animal—how could any creature—be so… intelligent? So aware? So deliberate?

And why did it hurt so much that she had left?