The call came just before dawn.
Marcus burst into my tent, his face carved from stone, his voice low and urgent.
"Shipment's moving. Wolves. Eastern ridge. Poachers have them caged — four adults, two juveniles."
I sat up, heart pounding. The words wolves and caged struck like lightning.
"Where?"
He tossed a satellite image onto the table, grainy but clear: trucks snaking along a dirt road, canvas tarps covering cages in the back.
"They'll cross the border by nightfall," Marcus said. "Once they do, they're gone. Sold. Skins, teeth, blood — the usual markets."
Elara appeared in the doorway, still in her dust-stained coveralls. Her eyes flicked from the photo to me. "If you're serious about this sanctuary, this is where it starts. We save them. Or we admit this is just stone and steel."
I rose without hesitation. "We go."
The valley gave way to forest, then to shadowed hills. Marcus drove the jeep like he was born in it, headlights bouncing over rutted dirt tracks. I sat in the passenger seat, hands clenched, every muscle taut. Behind us, Elara rode shotgun in a second vehicle, three of Marcus's handpicked men at her side.
The plan was simple. Cut off the convoy before the ridge. Neutralize the guards. Take the cages.
Simple — but nothing about it felt simple when I saw the trucks for myself.
They crawled along the ridge road, headlights stabbing through the dark. The tarps flapped in the wind, and beneath them, I caught glimpses — pale eyes, fur, the scrape of claws against iron.
Wolves.
Alive.
We struck fast.
Marcus's jeep roared onto the road, cutting across the convoy. The second vehicle blocked the rear. Men shouted, weapons flashing in the headlights.
Marcus moved first — a flash of steel, a crack of gunfire, a man dropping into the dirt. His team moved with brutal precision, disabling tires, disarming guards.
Elara was out of the jeep before I realized, wrench in her hand, swinging with a fury that left one poacher gasping in the dust.
I ran past the chaos, my heart hammering, my throat burning.
The cages rattled as I approached. Wolves snarled, eyes wild, teeth flashing in the dim light. One juvenile pressed itself against the bars, trembling, ears pinned flat.
My chest ached.
"Easy," I whispered, though my voice rasped raw. "You're safe now."
The words weren't human anymore. Not exactly. My altered voice vibrated, low and strange, carrying deeper than sound. It cut through the snarls, through the panic.
The wolves froze.
Six pairs of eyes turned toward me. Glinting. Searching.
I lowered myself to the ground, palms open, letting the sound roll from my chest — not words, not commands, but a song of intent: safety, refuge, home.
One by one, the growls faded. The juvenile whimpered, pressing closer to the bars.
The alpha — larger, scarred, its fur matted — tilted its head. Then, slowly, it lowered itself onto its haunches, never breaking eye contact.
Trust. Tentative. Fragile. But real.
Tears stung my eyes.
The fight ended quickly. Marcus's men hauled the surviving poachers into the dirt, zip-tied and gagged. The trucks lay crippled, tires shredded.
Elara joined me by the cages, wiping blood from her cheek, breathing hard. She stared at the wolves, then at me.
"They're yours now," she said softly. "Yours to protect. Yours to lead."
I swallowed hard, my throat aching. "No," I rasped. My voice trembled, resonant, carrying in ways it hadn't before. "They're not mine. I'm theirs."
We drove through the night, the cages strapped to flatbeds, the wolves restless but alive. The road was long, the dawn cold. But when the trucks rolled into the valley, when the sanctuary's hidden gates closed behind us, when the cages were lowered into the heart chamber — something shifted.
The forest biome was still young. Saplings reached upward, waterfalls trickled, air filters hummed. It was fragile, new, incomplete.
But it was waiting.
We opened the cages.
The wolves burst out, wild and frantic, snarls splitting the air. They circled the chamber, snapping at the walls, eyes wide.
I stepped forward, my chest tight, my throat raw. I let the altered voice rise, low and resonant, carrying through the stone: a song of calm, of belonging, of home.
The wolves froze.
One by one, they lowered their heads. The alpha stepped forward, scarred muzzle brushing against my hand. Its breath was hot, its teeth inches from my skin.
Then it pressed its forehead to my palm.
The chamber held its breath.
And in that moment, I knew — the sanctuary had its first residents.
That night, I stood on the ridge above, staring down at the glowing heart chamber. Wolves roamed the biome, their howls carrying through the artificial forest.
I whispered into the night, my voice altered, my vow renewed:
"You are safe. You are home. And you are only the first."
The sanctuary was alive.
Truly alive.