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The light of sunset descended like a slow spill of old gold, seeping through the forest leaves with the delicacy of a dying whisper. Every branch seemed to hold the day’s last glimmer, as if the sun were leaving luminous crumbs to remind the world it once ruled here.
But Mason, a young wolf full of pride and freshly earned wounds, needed no reminders. Glory, or stubbornness disguised as such, still burned in his aching muscles.
He had won.
Of course he had won. Even if every step was a sharp reminder that victory didn’t always smell like triumph: sometimes it smelled like blood.
His own.
He limped, yes. But he would never admit any sort of defeat, not even the smallest one, one so minor it could be mistaken for carelessness. That was his favorite sin: refusing to fall... until his body forced him to.
That afternoon, the forest held a deceptive calm. Unusual. The wind wasn’t blowing with its usual irritating insistence that ruffled his fur. The air carried a quiet that felt expectant, almost reverent, as if something in the shadows had decided to kneel.
Mason leaned his weight against a tree. He tried to look dignified, serene, as though he were merely contemplating the silence. But in truth, he wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to let consciousness leave him before collapsing under the weight of his own pride.
The ground caught him with a dry thud, and the world became a dark, blurred stripe.
And just before his vision shut completely, he saw something in the branches.
Something small.
Something dark.
Something shining.
Two eyes, two tiny cruel stars, suspended in the dimness of the leaves.
Mason barely managed to frown before blacking out.
When he came to, night ruled without mercy. Dark, deep, wider than any shadow he could comprehend. The moon looked like a knife slash across the sky, a silver wound. And the forest, silent and vast, breathed around him with the patience of an ancient beast.
He moved his injured paw, a clumsy, tiny gesture.
Something crunched.
The leaves wrapped around it, poorly placed, poorly tied, so ridiculously improvised, looked like the desperate attempt of someone trying to keep him alive. And yet... it didn’t hurt anymore.
In fact, it barely bothered him at all, which was strange.
—So... the human’s book was right.—
The voice drifted down from the tree, light, mocking, carrying a feline audacity even the night couldn’t hide.
Mason lifted his head. And there he was, up in the shadows.
Those bright eyes.
Again.
The black cat peeked out with a calculated movement, elegant without trying to be. His fur was a dark cloud, fluffy like dream blankets, but with the inherent danger of cats with too much free time and very little moral supervision. He wore a black collar with a silver bell that, for some reason, didn’t sound innocent.
He was obviously a house cat. A house cat, yes, one with the soul of a mythological creature.
Mason growled from the ground, his voice rough, his pride wounded.
—What the hell did you do to me!?—
The cat tilted his head, whiskers twitching. He smiled. Cats always know when they’re being unbearable.
—Curiosity.—
He replied.
—You were like my little lab rat. I just wanted to test something from the book my human brought from school.—
Mason squinted. It was ridiculous, absurd. Offensively absurd.
But the creature spoke with such shameless sincerity that it was almost convincing.
Kieran, though Mason didn’t yet know his name, thought of his human. Marcella. The girl who left books open on her bed, books about healing plants and poisonous ones, books he read without her knowing. Well... “reading” was a polite way to put it. Understanding. Or half understanding, or pretending he understood enough to experiment.
That day, the girl had cried because she hadn’t done her homework. Cried a lot. Between sobs, she hugged the cat as if he could magically solve her assignments. The cat, of course, let himself be cuddled while thinking about switching the salt and sugar. Feline curiosity, innate mischief. Cat things.
But now he was here.
—You!... You little ball of shit!—
Mason roared, trying to leap to his feet. Or trying to. His paw still hurt, and so did his pride.
He was moments away from charging the tree, climbing it, shaking that fluffy dark pelt like snow off a bush... when a voice cut through the air:
—Kieran! Come here! Your food is ready!—
A human voice. Young, calling the cat.
The tiny, star eyed menace turned toward the voice. Looked at Mason with a smile carrying equal parts challenge and mockery... then vanished. He slipped through the branches like the wind itself, disappearing in seconds.
Mason exhaled in frustration.
—Damn cat...—
He looked at his paw.
Healed.
With less pain.
And he had no idea his life had just twisted toward an unrecognizable destiny.
He returned to the tree not because he wanted to, but out of a mix of emotional obligation and because it was the furthest place he knew. He didn’t feel like listening to his mother scold him to death. The leader was always right, even when she wasn’t.
The tree was a refuge, a hideout. Or it had been... until now.
—Seriously... I hate when someone uses this tree as their favorite tree. I was here first.—
A chill ran down Mason’s spine. Not from fear. Recognition.
That voice, that shameless tone, that sound of a cat who believes he owns the world.
He looked up.
There he was.
Kieran smiled as if the moon had whispered an indecent secret into his ear. Mason chose not to respond. He let himself fall onto the grass, tired of everything. Even pride.
—Something wrong?—
The cat asked.
—You don’t look well.—
Mason snorted.
He wasn’t about to share his problems with a cat. Especially not one so irritating. And yet... who else would he tell? His brothers? No. His friends? Neither. They all lived under the shadow of the leader, his mother.
—You’re gonna laugh...—
He murmured at last.
Kieran blinked.
—Why would I laugh? I listen to my human talk about her boyfriend all day... and all the times he fell down. Trust me, I’m not laughing at anything today.—
Against all logic, Mason spoke.
He talked and talked, while the sun continued shining and the black cat listened from above, still as a living shard of night.
And for the first time in a long while, his soul felt lighter.
Days later, Kieran was asleep on his favorite branch when the tree trembled as if a giant had struck it. His claws dug into the wood. His back arched, every fiber of fur bristling in an explosive surge of automatic fury.
He looked down, ready to curse whoever had dared touch his tree.
Two wolves.
The idiot who had told him his problems... and another one. The second wolf slammed into Mason like a storm.
Kieran narrowed his eyes. Territory, dominance. Wolf nonsense, stupidity.
But it was HIS tree.
And Mason was... well... something.
He jumped without thinking.
Without doubt.
Without fear.
His claws found skin; the other wolf howled.
Kieran scratched, bit, did what cats do best: cause damage without remorse and vanish before anyone could blame them.
Mason seized the moment and lunged at the attacker, slamming him into bushes and rotten wood. The intruder yelped and fled.
Silence.
The cat shook out his fur, started toward his tree, ready to climb, ready to forget everything.
But Mason grabbed his tail.
—Hey! I want to sleep!—
—You sleep all day—
Mason complained.
—But... thanks for the help—
He added afterward.
The cat blinked.
“Thanks.” What a strange, rarely used, dangerous word.
—My tree—
He finally replied.
—Anyone who touches it deserves my eternal contempt.—
Mason stared at him quietly.
—Can I stay for a bit?—
The wolf asked.
Kieran analyzed him with the merciless scrutiny felines use to examine human misery.
He sighed.
—Fine.—
And he climbed.
—Everything okay with your family?—
He asked after a while.
Mason spoke, like that first time, as if the cat were an improbable sanctuary.
And from that day on, the impossible began to become routine.
The tree.
The dock.
The forest.
Kieran and Mason.
Mason and Kieran.
A wolf who feared loneliness, a cat who had adopted it as a life philosophy.
The wolf began seeking the cat. Waiting for him. Fearing not finding him.
Kieran’s human, Marcella, started closing the windows every night, every morning. Mason hated her for that, more times than he’d ever admit aloud.
But the cat always found a way to slip out... always, or almost always.
One day, at the dock, while they watched the fish swim, Mason leaned in to smell the cat.
Kieran didn’t move, didn’t even look at him.
—You really like smelling things—
He said with sarcasm.
Mason huffed but kept sniffing.
—You smell good—
He replied.
—For your breakfast?—
The cat shot back.
—No. You’re not appetizing.—
The cat opened his mouth. Then closed it. He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or offended.
Both seemed valid.
With time, Mason developed a strange habit: compulsively sniffing him. And worse, rubbing his scent onto Kieran’s black fur whenever he detected an unfamiliar smell.
The cat complained, but never moved away.
He slept on the wolf when it was cold, tangled himself in his grey fur. Played malicious little pranks on him.
And Mason allowed everything.
Everything.
At home, Marcella grew more and more confused.
—Why do you have grey fur on you!?—
She cried while shaking the cat.
Kieran looked at her with his usual expression of: “humans, please.”
Deborah, the sister, crossed the room calmly.
—Maybe he’s seeing a lady cat… you know. Cats.—
—Don’t joke!—
Cella protested.
—When we tried introducing him to the neighbor’s cat, Kieran hid!—
—Oh, Maria…—
Deborah remembered.
Maria, the beautiful cat. Sweet Maria. The one the black cat completely ignored in favor of taking naps beside her without further interaction.
Cella cried because she’d never have kittens.
Deborah mocked her.
Kieran stared at a wall.
Until Marcella came up with an idea of what might be happening. Her face filled with horror.
—No! Someone hurt my baby!—
She wailed, clutching Kieran like an emotional sack of potatoes.
—What kind of hurt? Do you think he was attacked?—
Deborah asked, amused.
—No! Someone abused my cat against his will!—
And she took him to the vet.
Kieran screeched dramatically, as if the world were committing a crime against feline dignity.
Deborah stayed behind.
—What the hell…?—
She muttered.
That afternoon, back in the forest, Kieran was indignant.
Humiliated.
Insulted in his sacred essence.
—Because of you my human invented an entire dramatic novel—
He growled. His fur was covered in Mason’s grey hairs again… which did not help.
The wolf smiled.
Unbothered.
Calm.
—Uh-huh—
He answered.
And he cared absolutely nothing.
Kieran huffed.
And that’s how it all began.
What it would become, what they still didn’t know how to name.
A cat dark as night, a grey wolf who had stopped fearing loneliness, a tree that saw them born as enemies and reborn as something inexplicable.
And the forest…
The forest would keep watching.