The wolf stood. Moonlight dusted its grey hide, casting deep shadows under eyes that held a merciless wisdom. The nights were his canvas, the stars his silent chorus. He looked to the sword. Buried, forgotten in time’s cruel grasp. A sentinel. It bore no shine; it bore only purpose. His eyes traced the blade’s lines, remembering warriors past. He stood guard, the divide between yesterday’s ghosts, tomorrow’s hope palpable under his paws. A low growl echoed the silent history, resonating with his own story. He was of the night. The sentinel was of time. Together they stood. Moonlit. Resilient. Ever watchful.