Stone Circle and somewhere two hunted animals trembling

The field stretched vast and unbroken to the horizon, a sea of brittle grass turned silver beneath the hardening touch of frost. The land was a pale expanse, the stalks whispering faintly in the unceasing breath of winter's air, their brittle bodies bowing but unbroken. Above, the sky was an endless canvas of blue, so clear it seemed to scrape against eternity itself, the sun a distant fire, its light sharp and pale, casting shadows long and thin. The cold lay heavy on the world, a presence unseen but felt, stealing the breath from the lungs, gnawing at the skin like an old dog. The stillness was absolute, the silence of December's first days woven into the fabric of the earth. A crow circled once, its shadow fleeting over the frozen expanse, and then it was gone, the field left to its solitude, waiting, enduring.

Through the frost-bound expanse, a black shape moved with purpose, its stride unbroken and sure, the rhythm of its gait steady as a heartbeat. The sun caught upon the face of the wolf, glinting off the single gold eye that burned bright. The other eye, steeped in the same deep darkness as its fur, seemed swallowed by the shadow of its own visage—a trick of the unforgiving winter light—but it watched all the same.

Far across the field, the deer grazed in quiet vigilance, their slender necks rising and falling as they plucked at the frost-laden grass. They knew the wolf was there, every ear turned toward the black shape moving steadily closer, their breath rising in soft clouds like fragile ghosts in the still air. Yet, they did not flee. Not yet. The distance between predator and prey was enough for a tenuous peace, the wolf's focus elsewhere, its intent unreadable even to their wary eyes.

Beyond them, the horizon bore its own scars, a jagged crown of standing stones thrust skyward, stark against the blue expanse. Weathered and ancient, they seemed less like constructs and more like remnants, the bones of some forgotten titan laid bare to the elements. The air around them shimmered faintly, a trick of the cold or something more—a whisper carried in silence, threading through the vastness of the field.

The wolf's path bent toward these stones, its interest drawn not by hunger but by an older, deeper curiosity. It moved with a quiet grace, each step deliberate, pausing only briefly to lift its head and taste the wind, the single gold eye fixed on the ancient silhouettes ahead. The deer remained still, their bodies tense as bowstrings, but the wolf did not look back. It stalked closer to the stones, the brittle grass breaking underfoot, its dark form and the shadowed teeth of the monoliths merging as one against the winter's stark tableau.