"The Last Song of Wulf"

“Somehow, the night speaks louder when the wolf is near.”

Snow blanketed the forest in silence. Each flake fell like a whisper, burying the world in white. The trees stood tall and still, and the only sound was the soft crunch of boots.

Tomas trudged deeper into the forest, his breath fogging in the icy air. He was no stranger to the wild—he was a ranger, raised on these lands, a protector of creatures most had forgotten. But tonight, he wasn’t patrolling.

He was hunting.

A wolf had been spotted near the village—large, silver-grey, and unafraid of humans. Sheep were found dead, their bodies untouched, throats slashed. People were afraid. The elders spoke of old stories—about a spirit wolf, the last of its kind, angry and alone.

Tomas didn’t believe in legends. Wolves were animals, not spirits. But he also knew that a cornered creature was dangerous.

His fingers touched the rifle slung across his shoulder. He hoped he wouldn’t need it.

By dusk, he reached the edge of the glacial lake. The sky was bruised purple. Shadows stretched long between the pine trees. That’s when he saw them—tracks. Wolf prints, massive and deep, fresh in the snow.

Tomas crouched, examining them. They led toward the frozen lake, then vanished.

A low growl rumbled behind him.

He turned slowly.

There it stood.

The wolf was huge—larger than any he had seen. Its coat was silver, almost glowing under the moonlight. Its eyes were not wild, but ancient. Intelligent.

Tomas didn’t raise his weapon.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said softly.

The wolf tilted its head.

“Why are you here?” Tomas asked. “You’re not hunting to eat. You kill, but you leave the bodies.”

The wolf stepped closer, its paws silent on the snow. Then it stopped, and looked toward the mountains.

And Tomas understood.

This creature was mourning.

The forests were shrinking. Hunters had wiped out the wolf’s pack. It was the last of its kind. The deaths weren’t attacks—they were warnings. Messages.

“This land was yours,” Tomas whispered. “We took too much.”

The wolf let out a low, mournful howl that echoed across the lake like a broken song.

Suddenly, the wind shifted. From the trees behind, another shot rang out.

CRACK!

Tomas dropped to the ground, but it was too late.

The wolf staggered, blood blooming across its fur. A second shot came.

Tomas spun, yelling, “NO!”

But the other hunter had already stepped into the clearing, rifle raised. It was Erik—young, eager, reckless.

“Did I get it?” Erik grinned.

“You idiot!” Tomas ran to the wolf, which had collapsed near the frozen shore.

Its chest heaved, breath coming in shudders. Its eyes met Tomas’s one last time.

And then, it stilled.

Tomas knelt, silent.

Erik stepped forward. “It’s just a beast, Tomas. That’s what we came for.”

“No,” Tomas replied, voice low. “That wasn’t just a beast. That was the end of something sacred.”

He stood and glared at Erik. “You came for a trophy. I came for the truth.”

Tomas carried the body of the wolf to the edge of the lake and buried it under the snow. He left his rifle behind and walked into the forest alone.

---

In the years that followed, the forest grew even quieter. The people of the village spoke less of wolves and more of silence. Tomas never hunted again. But on winter nights, when the moon was full and the wind was still, some claimed they heard a howl from the mountains.

Not of fear.

Not of warning.

But of memory.

Of a creature who once ruled the wild.

And was lost to it.