The old dog began to run toward the wolves—just as he had, the day before, charging through the blizzard and cold. The two wolves dropped into a stance of attack—and they, too, began to run. The old dog passed his son and ran after his sharp-footed daughter. The girl sensed her father’s presence—her eyes gleamed, and she ran even faster. Until suddenly, her legs were in the air—her father had grabbed her by the nape and was carrying her toward the doe.

  The girl barked madly, just like she had the night before—but the old dog gave her no mind. He blocked his son's path too, and made it clear the boy should follow him. He reached the doe and stood before her. Then he glanced at the wolves and barked. He circled the doe and her young, as if drawing a line with his body, telling them: this is where he belongs. Yes, the old dog was a true warrior. He knew well that if he chased the wolves, one would slip away—and rip into his family’s throat. So he stood his ground—firm and unshaken.

  The old dog had taken his own family, the doe, and her child under his protection—but they weren’t the only family in this meadow, were they? The two wolves turned their eyes away from the old dog and the doe, searching for another prey—perhaps a wandering calf from the cattle herd, or a young zebra left behind in the rush. Until they saw a lone foal, lost in its game. A brown foal with a black mane and tail, grazing in its own little world, trying to find balance on its legs. Unaware of the eyes of two wolves, creeping slowly toward him.

  A prey must not know. Must not fear. It must be torn apart in an instant. Otherwise, the venom of fear seeps into its flesh—and turns it bitter.

  The sun had begun its descent, slowly sinking beneath the earth. It was no longer yellow—but red now. And the sky had lost its blue. The wolves crept through the bushes and trees, unseen by all—except for the old dog, who stood between going and staying. He barked again and again, trying to warn the others of the danger—but it had no effect.

  He wanted to move forward. He knew he had to. But the past lay before him like a wall. The place where he had gone—and his companion had been hunted. The day he had run as fast as he could, and still not arrived. The place where his life had ended.

  He felt warmth in his paw—and came back to himself. The little pup had nestled into his paws—looking up at him, then toward the distance.

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  Go, old dog! Now is the time—go, before it’s too late. Don’t let this sunset be the last for the foal and its mother. The old dog set off—and his children followed close behind. He turned back and told them, without words, to stay—beside the mother doe and the two little ones.

  He went alone. Two lifeless mothers appeared before his eyes—one beneath the poplar tree, the other lying in the snow. He stood still, looked to the sky, barked—and howled. And then, he heard the foal’s voice.

  Panting, afraid, and alone—he ran. He no longer looked at the flowers, the birds, or the rabbits. He only looked behind—seeing, again and again, the red eyes of the wolves. For a moment, his eyes met the old dog’s—but he didn’t see him. But the old dog saw the foal’s frightened eyes—clearly.

  He turned—looked at his family one last time. Perhaps it was the last glance. Perhaps the last sunset. Perhaps he wouldn’t live to see the night. But it was worth it.

  So he ran—and pushed himself faster. Alone, through the meadow, he ran—chasing the sun. He left the meadow behind and entered the open plain. The sun was still ahead. The old dog was soaring now—outpacing the wind. He sensed a flock of vultures above him—just for a moment. They, too, were after the foal.

  But the hero of the plain had a different purpose. So he barked—again and again—so the foal and the wolves would hear. Each heard a different sound—one heard hope. The other two heard fear. The two wolves turned—just for a moment—and looked at him. That small moment was enough—for him to reach them. The hero of the plain smiled—and kept going.

  At once, hundreds of ears—and hundreds of eyes—were watching them. The two wolves had cornered the foal. No matter which way he ran, they cut him off. They had reached the foot of the mountain, and the foal had nothing left in him. The old dog barked, louder and louder. His voice echoed through the forest.

  Far away, his children’s ears perked up. They could stand still no longer. So they ran, toward the mountain—leaving the little pup behind.

  The wolves drew closer to the foal—one approaching from behind, the other from the front. Death was staring into the young horse’s eyes. The wolf from behind leapt onto the foal’s back. The foal struggled, twisting and kicking beneath the weight of death. Their fangs called out to flesh—their jaws echoing on his warm neck.

  Where was the old dog? It was time to fly. Running was no longer enough. His eyes gleamed with something unshed, and a tear waited in the corner—quiet, trembling. Let it fall. Let it go, so it can let you go.

  The tear slipped free. And with it, the old dog rose—not just from the ground, but from the weight. He hurled himself forward, chest slamming into the wolf’s.

  The foal’s throat was released. The guardian of the plain had made it. He had saved him.

  Was it fear? Regret? Or something else?