The Wolf Who Chose Me
Not lifeless.
But hushed.
Like this place had been asked—gently but firmly—not to grow.
Grass became gravel, then grey stone, then something stranger.
The sky dimmed, not from cloud but from expectation. Like it, too, was holding its breath.
Then they saw it—the Ashglass Shore.
A vast stretch of cracked, gleaming stone. Black glass etched with veins of fire long cooled, but not forgotten. The air shimmered faintly as they walked across it, their reflections bending in ways light shouldn’t allow.