We wolves believe that death is a scent, unmistakable and irreversible. But I learned that day that when a certain temperature is hot enough, it can cheat death, briefly.
What flows in the lines on her palms is not compassion, that is too complicated. It was a simpler and more arrogant force - like a she-wolf grabbing her cub by the scruff of the neck to prevent it from falling into the abyss. The difference is that her teeth are green.
