A silver fox, almost transparent in the gloom, runs past my feet with a chill.
I watch this strange cousin of mine, my wolf-eyes looking on as he darts between trees and rocks, sniffing the air yet smelling nothing.
His death frustrates him. But he is not alone.
The ghosts of the wood come out at twilight, to blink in the half-light and drink in the forgotten moon.
Suddenly, amber eyes bore into mine. Hackles bristle.
I growl low in my chest at the little ghost fox. He instantly regrets his challenge and dissolves into the shadows.
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