Golden Glade first dawn

@Aitana @Qvasir @Ātoztli

The world was still cloaked in twilight as Mictec stirred in the quiet embrace of her den. Her obsidian coat shimmered faintly in the soft glow of the moon’s waning light, and her marigold eyes blinked open, piercing the dimness. Her muscles ached from the ordeal of the Moonlit Trial, a rite of passage that bound every young wolf to the traditions of her ancestors.  

Mictec had entered the trial as a lost soul, one burden with the trauma caused by others who shared her blood. She emerged now as something different, someone who now carried the burden with a head held high.

The cool scent of the earth surrounded her, mingling with all the others scents that still clung from the Trial. But off in one corner was the faintest scent, one she vowed to bring back, and small collection of marigold seeds. Come spring, she decided, she would plant the seeds.

Mictec’s ears twitched at the memory of her abuela's whispered words: La prueba no es para poner a prueba tu fuerza, Mictec, sino para despertar tu espíritu. Solo bajo la luz de la luna un lobo puede descubrir lo que lleva dentro.

The young wolf stretched, her claws raking the earth, and stepped hesitantly toward the den’s mouth. The forest beyond was bathed in silver, shadows pooling between the bare trees, making the fresh powder of snow seem to glow. Soon, dawn would arise.

As she emerged, the forest seemed to greet her. The rustle of the wind was like a whispered welcome, and the soft calls of nocturnal creatures spoke of life unseen but always present. Mictec paused to drink in the air. It smelled of damp soil, distant water, and something else—something unfamiliar, like the edge of a storm.  

The Moonlit Trial demanded more than survival; it required discovery. So she took her first step into the glade, marigold eyes glinting with a mixture of apprehension and determination.

twilight stretches its luxuriantly dark touch through the glade, resting content between the eaves of black boughs and cold winter air.

around them life abounds. atoztli senses what moves mictec, and it moves her too.

a commandment, writ in the soft thrum of the earth. the hidden sigh of the trees.

she follows, steps light as mictec leads her deep within the glade.

sorry on the wait!

Qvasir emerged from the shadows like a wraith, his massive frame moving with the fluidity of a seasoned warrior, each step deliberate and soundless upon the snow-dusted earth. The silvered moonlight caught the sharp angles of his features, his jaded eyes cold and steady as they settled on Mictec.

He did not speak immediately, offering a shallow bow instead, the gesture steeped in reverence. The scent of the trial still clung to her, a sharp contrast to the clean bite of the winter air. He observed her closely, noting the way she carried herself now—changed, tempered by the fire of her ordeal.

Mictec, his voice was low, even, carrying the weight of approval without flourish. He inclined his head slightly toward the marigold seeds she carried. A faint exhale escaped him, a whisper of relief or perhaps pride.

Without another word, Qvasir fell into step behind her, his presence a silent promise of protection and support, an unspoken acknowledgment of her transformation. The stoic guardian did not need to say more—his actions were testament enough.