Xean had barely enough time to react.
Instinct took over—he dove to the side, pain shooting through his shoulder as it slammed into a root hidden beneath the leaves. The beast's claws tore through the space he'd just occupied, slicing the air with a high-pitched hiss.
The creature skidded to a halt, glowing eyes locked on him once more.
It didn't pounce. Not yet.
It watched. Studied him.
Almost as if it were waiting.
Xean scrambled backward on all fours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Panic surged in his chest. His mind screamed for an answer—for anything to explain what this thing was. What he was.
The wolf-creature growled again, low and thunderous, but still it didn't strike. It began to circle instead, slow and deliberate.
Then—like it had been summoned by his very thoughts—a crack of lightning split the sky. This time not in the distance.
It struck the tree just behind the monster.
Splinters exploded, searing light flooded the clearing—and within that light…
A memory that wasn't his.
A name rose in his mind, sudden and unshakable:
Azit.
The true owner of this body.
Xean staggered back as the vision overtook him. The forest melted away, replaced by a vast corridor of glass and gold. He stood on polished marble floors, beneath chandeliers of frozen crystal. Outside the tall windows, snow fell in thick, soundless sheets.
A house.
No—a manor
The Orphanage.
That's what they called it. Not publicly. Only among those who knew. The elite. The untouchable. The hidden architects of cities, of economies… of lives.
Azit had grown up there. Not by birth, but by placement.
A servant. A child. Twelve years old, scrubbing floors and delivering secrets with bowed head and quiet steps. And for a while, it had been enough.
Until the night he saw something he never should have.
He'd taken a wrong turn, looking for the cold storage room in the lower levels. And there—he found them.
A dozen men in ceremonial robes, encircling a boy no older than ten. The boy floated six feet above the floor, motionless, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. His eyes glowed white.
It was Azit's friend. His little brother in all but blood.
Blood traced glowing runes across the marble beneath him.
And standing at the center of it all—
Madame Elira.
The owner.
The eternal face of the Orphanage.
Beautiful. Untouchable. Timeless.
She turned her eyes on Azit like she'd known he was coming.
He'd run. Didn't think. Just ran.
But he never made it to the gates.
They chased him into the snow-drenched woods. Silent guards. No questions. Just orders.
Azit fought hard. He was smart, fast, desperate.
But he was only a boy—with truths too dangerous for anyone to let live.
They killed him beneath the old elm tree.
But something had changed.
As his blood soaked into the snow and turned it black, Azit's final thoughts weren't of fear.
They were of resistance.
Of defiance.
Of unfinished vengeance.
His soul shattered… but it didn't pass on.
It waited.
Waited for a vessel.
Waited for a spark.
Waited… for Xean.
Back in the forest, Xean gasped as the memory slammed shut.
His knees buckled.
His breath came ragged and sharp.
He looked down at his hands—Azit's hands. The blood in these veins had been spilled once.
And now it boiled.
The memory faded like smoke.
Xean's eyes snapped open as thunder rolled overhead and the rain intensified, cold and biting. His body burned from the inside out, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
There was no time to process what he'd just seen.
Because the wolf came at him again.
Massive. Terrifying. Its molten cracks glowed brighter in the dark, wings slicing through the downpour as it lunged.
Xean rolled aside, crashing into the mud. His shoulder screamed in pain. He scrambled to his feet, hands empty, soaked, weaponless.
No sword.
No shield.
Just him—and the beast.
The wolf snarled and leapt again, claws gouging into the earth where his head had been seconds earlier. Xean darted behind a tree
The creature tore through it like it wasn't even there.
Too fast.
Too strong.
Xean turned to run—but the forest offered no escape. Mud sucked at his boots. Branches clawed his face. He stumbled—
And the wolf was on him.
Fangs sank deep into his forearm.
A scream ripped from his throat.
Blinding pain exploded through his body as blood sprayed across the leaves. The beast thrashed its head, trying to tear the limb from his body.
Then something shifted.
A pulse.
A heartbeat, but not his own.
Heat surged from the bite, racing through his veins. His skin glowed beneath the wolf's teeth—then erupted in a blaze of gold and red.
A mark.
It flared to life on his arm, spiraling outward like fire-borne ink. The wolf yelped, stumbling backward, dazed by the radiance now pouring from Xean's body.
The sigil spread across his shoulder… down his chest… glowing like living flame.
Then—slowly it began to retract.
The light coiled inward, sliding back down his arm, curling into itself like a dying star.
Until all that remained was a single mark, no larger than a coin, glowing faintly just above his wrist.
Xean stared at it, gasping.
Then from its center
A dagger formed.
Not made. Forged—from light, from blood, from memory.
Small. Curved. Its blade etched in ancient runes. Its handle warm and worn, like it had been waiting for him.
He gripped it. His body trembled with pain, but the dagger steadied him.
The wolf lunged.
Xean didn't hesitate.
He pushed himself up onto one knee, teeth clenched, eyes burning with defiance.
And as the beast came down on him
He thrust upward with all his strength.
The dagger sank into the wolf's throat.
Right beneath the jaw, into the heart of its molten core.
The runes pulsed once.
Twice.
Then the creature gave a choking, broken howl as light erupted from its neck. Its veins flared white-hot then shattered.
The wolf collapsed.
A smoking heap of wings, ash, and silence.
Xean dropped beside it, dagger still clenched in his shaking hand.
The mark on his wrist burned once more, in sync with the dagger's fading glow.
Then
Both faded.