Whitebark Stream The river will be your eyes and ears.

Artyom and his family were leaving. Of course they were leaving, was the bitter whisper that remained only a fledgling burn in her chest before she swallowed it. The silver and coppered girl trailed the flooding lands, steering clear of it’s atrocities before coming upon Germanicus who had called. Her cheeks would flush at the memory of him standing over her, willing her to her paws after her deep faint.

Broken goods, her heart whispered again, and she chuffed quietly. There was a murmering—the dark soldier was being questioned harshly be a man next to a she-wolf, wondering what made Germanicus fit to follow them. Delicate lashes allowed her eyes to widen in light surprise, her eyes trailing to the direction of the leaving wolves. She belonged nowhere—she could not follow Artyom away from the valleys of the only true home she knew, nor would she be accepted among a place that questioned even the most steadfast soldier within their previous ranks.

Her amber eyes slid away, lithe form melting away from the lands of the stream, the silver bullet knew not what her next step was, but she had time to determine it. And so Meadow vanished into the foliage, quieting the darker thoughts her mind sang to her. It had simply not meant to be.