Before the name Black Fang carved itself into blood and legend...
There was a wolf no one wanted.
And his name was Smith McCall.
He wasn't born under a moon.
He was born during a fire.
The village of Hallo wrest had burned for hours, flames licking the skies as hunters tore through the forest in search of "beasts." What they found was a boy — no older than seven — eyes glowing faint silver, crouched over the body of a bleeding Alpha who had shielded him with his final breath.
They should have killed the boy then.
They didn't.
Instead, he was taken by the remnants of a broken pack, raised not with care, but caution. Smith grew up silent, watching, learning — always two steps behind the others, never chosen, never called for the hunt.
He was not alpha material, they said.
But there was something else in him.
Something older than the Alpha bloodline.
The first time Smith transformed, it wasn't the full moon.
It was a moment of instinct — when a rogue hybrid tore into their camp, and Smith, just fourteen, shifted mid-step, bones cracking, fur erupting, eyes gleaming like burnished steel.
He didn't just fight.
He hunted.
And when it was over, there was no blood on him.
Only the scorched claw mark burned into his shoulder — a brand none had ever seen before.
That night, the Seer of the pack called him aside.
She didn't speak at first — just stared. Then whispered:
"You're not a wolf of the moon."
"You are soul-marked."
"You are a Rider."
At seventeen, Smith McAll left the pack.
Not in exile — but in silence.
He built his bike from salvaged soul-metal, hunted down a Stormheart elemental to fuse it with his beast, and rode across battlefields like a whisper of death.
He wore no title. Took no mate. Answered to no Alpha.
But everywhere he rode, packs survived, hybrids fell, and vampires whispered his name with caution.
And then came the first war.
The Crimson Council rose in the north — a union of vampire lords, corrupted witches, and rogue werewolves. The packs fell into disarray. Alphas turned on each other. The moon's power wavered.
Smith returned not for glory — but because the world had forgotten what it meant to fear a Rider.
He tore down cities.
Slayed the Blood Witch Queen.
Ended the War of Five Moons.
And when the Alpha Council offered him a crown, he said only:
"I ride alone. Keep your throne."
But even legends bleed.
In the Battle of Daggerwind, a traitor rose from within the pack ranks — a True Alpha twisted by ambition. Smith was ambushed, overwhelmed by silver and spellfire.
His Soul Engine exploded in the sky like a falling star.
His body was never found.
But some say the Rider didn't die.
They say he passed into the Soul Flame, where time has no chain, and legends are reborn as needed.
They say he waits — watching the world descend again into darkness.
They say his name will return — not as Smith McAll...
...but as Zane Kyro.
The Black Fang.
The Last Rider.
The one the Wraithborn still fear.