Fox's Glade Dream on, but don’t imagine they’ll all come true

On her deathbed, slaughter would have been a kindness. To wilt like a plucked flower until all colour faded was a death of unfathomable pain and discomfort. This would be no heroic slaughter- and it ruined Ameline’s vision. But in the darkness, another awoke and cried out shortly after her mate spoke.

A bawling wail lifted in weak arcs as light filtered between the two wolves that had come to slay the bruin. Ameline moved forward, and saw the cub’s tawny muzzle lift, crusted with the last bit of dried milk, to cry out again. 

She remembered the way her daughters had cried when they had been born- she heard their voices now in the den. And with the last breath of the mother bear hot against her cheek, she moved forward to snatch the cub from her side.