Everything was the same and yet, somehow, different. The trees, the earth, even the sky thrummed with a lifesong he no longer recognized. Birds screeched alarm calls at his approach, but so confident an angel was he that he barely flinched. After all, he had no reason to fear, for he was the most dangerous creature in the woods. His destination was clear-cut in his mind, and his paws drew him towards it without faltering, sure in the course they had been set upon. The wraith moved with a purpose, but he still allowed himself to languish in the beauty of his surroundings, marveling at how time could heal even the deepest of wounds. The landscape had, in the eight years since his departure, blossomed into magnificence, seemingly oblivious to the life it had led before. Even the scar that the meteor had torn into the earth had healed, the fertile soil giving birth to fragrant life. Once more, Moladion had become a land where wolves ruled. He could scent them on the wind, thriving on the plethora of prey that had drifted like dandelions into the vicinity, drawn by the rich scents of new growth. His long, beautiful legs moved without hurry, carrying him easily through the underbrush while his mind wondered. He recalled a time, long ago before the Great Disaster, when he was just a pup nursing at his mother's teat beside his brother, Seraphiel. He had managed, by some chance, to escape his mother's watchful eye, and had (after a narrow scrape with a hungry eagle), joined his father upon one of the many eyries of Trenus. Up there in the clouds, he had basked in his father's shadow, listening intently to the promises his father made him. His blood ran thick with the genes of angels (his markings proved it so) and one day he was destined to be kind. He had lapped up the tales like water, enjoying the taste of them on a tongue thirsty for the truth. In the end though, they had been naught but stories, fed to a feisty pup by his doting father. After the meteor hit, Heyel had become introspective and pensive, pining for Zeivah and the family that did not make it. At two years old, Ferox and Seraphiel had also been stricken by the loss of their mother, and had stayed close beside their father, seeking assurance from his comforting bulk. Eventually, when memories of their mother's warmth began to fade, Ferox decided that he would not stay in so broken a landscape, toiling with the others to rebuild a lost heritage. So, and without the companionship of Seraphiel at his side, he had abandoned his family and set out for greener pastures.

At first he had wandered as a nomad, gaining strength and wisdom, until his fifth year dawned. That was the year he took a mate and won a pack. For awhile he had lived there, basking in his accomplishments, before the restlessness set in. His heart pined for the home he had abandoned, and he longed for the companionship of others who bore the angel blood. His pack had tried to win back his listless heart, but to no avail. Even his mate, sweet as she was, could not rekindle within him the spark she had fallen in love with. And so it was that, in his ninth year, he had left the home he had built from scratch to seek out those who had long since forgotten him. He left no children, for his mate was barren, and his beta had gladly taken his place at the head of the pack. Now, he was close, so close to finally assuaging the deep longing of his soul, finally reestablishing the ties that meant so much to him he could not hope to start over elsewhere. The sun rode high in the sky, settling on the eddying currents of the noon and playing hookie with the clouds. Ferox shut his lilac eyes tightly and inhaled the sharp, autumnal breeze. Upon it he caught the soft breath of a pack-smell, overlain by the familiar stench of Isola, his estranged sister. Excitement sparkled within him and he broke into a ground-eating lope, tail all a-flutter. The trees around him began to thin, and it wasn't too long before he broke out of their cover and onto a high plateaus, one that overlooked an emerald valley shining in the sunlight like a jewel. Anticipation rose like a tidal wave within his chest and Ferox threw back his mighty head and filled his chest with air, allowing a howl to break from him such as he had never before uttered. It echoed with all he had encountered, burned with all that he had seen and rang with the sorrow and love he had maintained for the wolves he left behind. As he drew it to a close and lowered his jaws, he wondered whether his father was still living and hoped that he was. After all, it was never too late to learn to be an assassin.

He looked magnificent, the mighty white wolf perched on the edge of the precipice, the sun casting his shadow onto the land far below. It wasn't Trenus, but it was something so much better, so much more.

It was hope.