The Legend of the Silver Claw

LIAM

I watched Fabian's small fingers trace the outline of a rocket ship on his new bedspread. The six-year-old's face lit up with a kind of cautious joy that made my chest tighten. Kids his age should beam without reservation, not carry shadows behind their eyes.

"Do you like it?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe of what used to be a guest room in the Silverclaw pack house.

"It's perfect," he whispered, bouncing slightly on the mattress. "I've never had space sheets before."

The room had been transformed in less than a day. Space-themed everything—from the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered across the ceiling to the planet-shaped pillows. The kid deserved something special after everything he'd been through.

"Why space?" I asked, genuinely curious. Most wolf pups his age gravitated toward forests or mountains—nature scenes that called to our animal sides.

Fabian's small shoulders lifted in a shrug. "It's quiet there. And far away. Nothing bad can reach you in space."