Damian
The world is still black when sound returns.
A low hum.
A pulse in the earth.
A vibration in the air, like the forest itself, is waking.
Then light bleeds back into the clearing — silver, cold, divine.
Fenrir stands at the center, towering, ancient, carved from moonlight and shadow. His presence crushes my lungs, my bones, my soul. Dixon crouches within, tail tucked, ears flat, bowing to the God who birthed Lycan kind.
‘You traitor,’ I laugh. ‘The Moon Goddess is who we worship, not Fenrir.’
‘He’s the Lycan God, Damian. Have some respect!’ My wolf snaps, and I laugh louder.
Saltan stands rigid, fur bristling, eyes glowing like molten silver.
Fenrir lifts his hand.
The forest falls silent.
“Listen well,” he says, voice echoing through the trees, earth, and my spine. “For
