The wilds of the northern ranges had outlived civilization's collapse. Where once cities scarred the land with steel and smoke, only ruin remained—buried beneath ash, ice, and the quiet hunger of time. Snow-capped peaks loomed above pine-choked valleys, their slopes still haunted by the bones of old wars. Roads were nothing more than cracked ribbons now, devoured by roots and silence. Here, nature had reclaimed her throne, and the Lykaen called it home. No satellite passed overhead. No drone dared patrol. This was not territory—it was dominion. Claimed by tooth, claw, and ancient rite. The last remnants of Earth's wild majesty belonged not to humanity, but to the Clans.
This was Lykaen territory. And within its heart, the Redfang Hold stood as testament to blood and dominance. Unlike the opulence of the Noctis Court or the steel corridors of the Human Coalition, the Redfang Hold was carved directly into the mountain itself. Its halls were lit by fire, bone, and the glow of lunar crystals. Its walls were tattooed with murals of legendary hunts, of blood feuds settled beneath full moons, of Alpha after Alpha crowned in fire and tooth.
And above all of them now ruled
High Alpha Rurik Bloodbane. He stood at the center of the Council Circle, broad as a mountain, his arms crossed over his scarred chest. His hair was ash-blond, wild and knotted. His beard was streaked with silver and blood. Muscles bunched beneath his skin like corded ropes, and across his back was the ceremonial hide of the previous High Alpha—his father—whom he had torn down in trial-combat to claim his title. Rurik did not speak unless he wished the world to listen.
When he growled, armies obeyed. When he howled, the mountain answered.
Around him sat the Clans' Inner Circle: —Urdak Flamejaw, his old war-brother, now Warden of the Eastern Border, loyal but impatient. —Thane Gorrik, the youngest Alpha in a century, fierce and hungry, whose followers whispered already of challenging the old ways. —Matron Hessa, Keeper of the Old Rites, ancient and blind, her voice carried the weight of a thousand moon cycles.
And among them, sharper than any blade, sat Ysolde Fenra—the silver-eyed she-wolf who bore no title but held more sway than most Alphas dared admit.
Where Rurik ruled by force, Ysolde thrived by foresight. She was not born into power. She earned it with every battle, every negotiation, every moment she stood between the clans and war. Tall and lean, her voice was calm but carried steel. Her amber gaze could silence a drunken brawl. She wore no ornaments, no gold—only the hide of a direwolf she had slain herself.
The Binding Circle is fracturing," Ysolde said now, her voice steady as the hearth fire. "The humans strengthen their walls. The Fae send masked envoys. The Noctis bleed their own. We should not wait for the storm. We must prepare."
A low growl came from Thane Gorrik. "Prepare how? Bow to humans? Sign more oaths to bloodless kings? The Binding holds the peace," Ysolde replied. "Without it, we are at war with all. And some of us," she glanced toward the younger wolf with just enough disdain, "have not seen real war. The circle tensed. High Alpha Rurik raised a hand, and silence fell like snow.
We are wolves, he rumbled, voice like thunder rolling across stone. "We do not beg. We do not bend. But… we do not starve, either. Let the humans clutch their machines. Let the vampires drink their own shadows. We will not be pawns. But neither will we be fools. Outside, the howling wind broke into a distant, rhythmic beat—drums.
The Fullmoon Hunt was assembling. Warriors gathered in the great clearing beyond the hold: scarred, armored in leather and steel, some already half-shifted. This was not a ceremony, It was tradition. A way to remind the clans what it meant to be Lykaen—what it meant to hunt, not rule. Rurik stepped from the council into the cold. The air clung to his skin like breath before battle. Behind him, Ysolde followed. Some of them want you dead," she said without looking at him. Rurik grinned, sharp teeth flashing. "Then they should try harder. One day, they will. Good. That's how we keep strong.
The hunt began beneath a wounded sky, veined with the blood-red glow of atmospheric scars—remnants of the supernatural wars that had burned across Earth. No clean moonlight bathed the land now, only the warped glimmer of fractured satellites and aurora storms threading through the clouds like ghostfire. In the frost-choked valley below, the shifters gathered in silence before the storm, bodies trembling with the anticipation of release. Then, as one, they tore through flesh and bone, their transformations erupting in grotesque beauty—limbs stretching, jaws snapping, spines arching until men became monsters. Fur burst from skin, eyes turned gold, and within seconds, the valley thundered with the charge of beasts the size of warhorses. Their howls split the air, a sound older than language, echoing off ruined cliffs and dead stone. Trees groaned as they passed, claws carving deep into snow and frozen soil, the scent of blood—future or remembered—carried in the wind. This was not a ceremonial hunt. It was justice.
A traitor had broken oath, dared question the Alpha's will. Tonight, something would die—be it man, beast, or both. And yet, amidst the chaos, Ysolde Fenra did not run. She stood at the edge of the ancient grove, unmoved by the frenzy of flesh and instinct. Cloaked in fur and steel, her silver eyes traced every movement—every hesitation, every overconfident lead, every pair of claws that drifted from the pack's rhythm. She did not hunger for the kill—she sought the cracks in the order, the slow rot beneath the roar. Let Rurik's chosen unleash their fury; her mind hunted deeper. Where he ruled with fang and force, she watched with patience and precision. Because the true enemy would not be found with teeth—but with truth.
The younger wolves were hungry. Reckless. Some whispered of siding with the rebels—the Unbound. They dreamed of ending the Binding Circle, of claiming territory beyond the Tear. Ysolde knew better. Power without structure was ruin. War without strategy was extinction. Back in her tent, lit by rune-fire, she unrolled a map marked with recent attacks—rebel symbols burned into trees, human caravans ambushed near neutral zones. A storm was coming. One greater than even Rurik saw. And as much as she hated it, she knew what must be done.
We must speak to the humans," she whispered to the empty room. "Before the night eats us all."