There is a version of every wolf who has ever lived that only exists when they run beside the one they were made for.
Every love story has a fault line. Theirs ran through the center of the earth.
A white wolf ran beside a black one.
The black wolf's eyes were gold, ancient, burning with a light that predated stars. Their strides matched perfectly, two bodies moving as one thought, cutting through a forest that existed before forests had names.
She knew him. In her bones, in her blood, in the marrow of a body she had worn a thousand times before this one. He was hers and she was his and the forest knew it and the sky knew it and every living thing that saw them run together understood that this was how the world was supposed to look.
A spoke of darkness split the earth between them.
