Eric dreamt of a snowy mountain, jagged and immense. The snow never melted, hiding the bones of countless creatures beneath its ice. A radiant blue moon hung low in the distant sky, bathing the slopes in cold silver light.
On one slope, a pack of wolves cut across the rigid terrain, their shapes ghostly in the snow. There were twelve of them — gray and strong — moving with purpose, weaving through the wind as though it belonged to them.
At the end of the line trailed a smaller one — gray-furred, thin, his breath ragged from the climb. Each step sank deep into the snow. He stumbled, caught himself, and pushed on.
he was born weak, the last of the litter. The pack had thought he wouldn't survive the first winter. But he had. Barely. When they ran, he ran harder, chasing the rhythm that came so easily to the others.
Sometimes the alpha would glance back, golden eyes calm but distant — a silent reminder that life waited for no one, not even the slow.
Still, the young wolf dreamed of strength. He dreamed of leading one day, standing tall on the rocks where only the alpha stood, howling into the frozen wind until the mountains themselves howled back.
Dreams were warmth — and warmth died quick in the cold.
The pack traversed the mountain when suddenly the wind shifted. The cold bit sharper. The alpha, sensing danger, growled — urging the pack to quicken. The little wolf, already behind, struggled to keep pace. Then, with a roar of determination, he pushed forward with newfound energy.
But the storm came in full fury. Snow spiraled upward like a living tide; darkness churned above. The alpha, realizing the danger, surged ahead to reach the cub — but the blizzard hit. Wolves were tossed from the slope, tumbling into a deep valley below.
At the valley's edge, a heap of snow stirred. The cub had survived by some miracle — but for how long? His body broken, a leg bent wrong, his breath shallow, the cold gnawing deep into his bones.
And yet, he lived.
A will stronger than most surged inside him. Pain did not deter him; weakness did not claim him. He would become alpha. He would rise.
Then came the light. Faint, pulsing under the snow near his paw. Blue, soft as breath.
He dragged himself closer. The glow hummed through the ice, filling the hollow air. He pressed his paw against it. The ice shattered like glass. The light engulfed him, burning like fire consuming woods.
Warmth poured into his chest, wild and alive. Pain followed, crawling through his veins, his bones, his fur. He howled, but no sound came. The light seeped into every scar, every weakness.
When it faded, the snow around him melted into a shallow hollow. His breath steamed slow and steady.
He stood — taller, heavier, his fur black as night, faintly glowing blue at the tips. The gray of weakness was gone. Strength was his.
When he returned to his pack, they did not recognize him. The alpha was dead, the others wary. One approached first, head low, teeth bared. The rest circled, growls rolling through the cold air.
He lowered his head in greeting, tail flicking once. A sound escaped him — not quite a growl, not quite a whine, as though to say: *It is me.*
They lunged.
He did not fight. He let the claws rake his hide. When he finally turned, his strength sent two sprawling into the snow — not out of rage, but the weight of what he had become.
Their eyes burned with fear.
he was not their kin and not need in the pack. Not anymore not every.
So he ran never looking back. Through snow, through wind, until snow gave way to stone, and stone to soil. Seasons passed in steps uncounted. He crossed rivers steaming in winter, plains shimmering under heat. He watched men build villages, tear them down, and build again. The scent of fires filled the wind. He stayed away.
Eventually, he found the forest — vast, green, humming with quiet power. A magic not in storms or gods, but in roots, rain, and the soil itself.
There, beneath a ridge of moss and oak roots, he curled up for the first time without fear. The power inside him pulsed faintly, no longer wild — only tired.
He closed his eyes. The world dimmed never to be seen again
When the light faded, so did the snow. The cold wind vanished, replaced by damp earth and the smell of moss.
Eric blinked. The forest had returned. The same endless green. The same quiet. But for a moment, he still felt the weight of the mountains in his chest — the sting of snow in his fur that wasn't his own.
He touched his face, half expecting frost. Only warmth. Breath.
"What… was that?" he murmured.
His voice came out rough, distant. Like he'd spoken after too long in silence.
The wolf was gone. No paw prints, no sign of movement — just the faint shimmer of air where it had stood. He stared at the space for a long while, unsure if it had ever been there at all.
His body felt heavier somehow, but not in pain. More like something unseen had been added to him — a memory, a heartbeat, an echo that wasn't his.
He drew in a slow breath.
His knees ached as he pushed himself up. his legs moving where the wolf had stood before in dream or memory he did not know, now only silence waited. Then his eyes caught it — just a few paces ahead, beneath a knot of roots and moss.
Bones.
The shape of a wolf still there, ribs curved like a frozen wave, skull half-buried in dirt. The black fur had long since turned to dust, yet faint senses lingered on the bones, glowing so faintly it could've been his imagination.
Eric's breath hitched. The image of the living wolf — that proud, lonely creature from the dream — hovered over the remains like smoke that refused to fade.
And then the voice came again. Low, steady. Too close.
"What a poor creature of shadow and ice… granted power beyond its nature, only to rot in this forgotten corner of the world. A pity, isn't it, child of the ruins?"
Eric didn't answer. His thoughts were far away — still chasing the image of the wolf he'd seen first, the creature he'd thought was a magic beast.Now he wasn't sure what he'd seen at all.. the sprit of the wolf or the remains of its power he was not sure at all.