The world was a blur of shadows and echoing silence when Ryan opened his eyes.
His body ached, as though he'd been torn apart and stitched back together with fire. The air around him was thick—earthy, ancient—laced with the pungent tang of burning herbs, damp moss, and something untamed. Smoke curled in slow spirals above a low-burning brazier at the center of the stone chamber.
He tried to sit up, but the weight of the air pressed him down. It wasn't just physical—it was something older. Something watching.
He blinked hard. The ceiling above wasn't a ceiling at all, but the dome of a vast cave, its walls lined with glowing carvings. They pulsed faintly, alive in hues of blue and amber. Wolves mid-howl, celestial bodies, spiraling runes—he couldn't read them, but they stirred something deep in his bones. Something ancient. Something his blood recognized before his mind could catch up.
A whisper of sound broke the stillness. He turned.
There, kneeling before a flickering altar of obsidian and bone, was the elder.
Cloaked in layered furs and feathers, his white hair hung in rough cords like icicles. His lips moved silently, chanting—or praying—with palms raised to the glowing runes. He looked like he had been there for hours… or centuries.
Ryan opened his mouth, but no sound came. His throat was dry, his tongue foreign. The mist, the transformation—whatever had happened before—felt like a dream burned into his nerves.
And yet, this place was real.
The stone beneath him was warm, pulsing faintly with heat, like the heart of something living. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped rhythmically. The wind—or something alive—howled faintly.
He stood, shakily. Everything felt heavier, as if gravity had changed. The carvings seemed to shift with him, following his movements. One mural showed a massive wolf before a crowd of kneeling figures. Another: a blood moon above a battlefield of beasts and men. And in the center of the largest wall—surrounded by spirals and flame—stood a lone wolf, cloaked in stars and shadow.
Ryan stared at it.
He didn't know why… but he knew it was him.
The silence lingered, alive and aware.
He slid down against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, trying to breathe evenly. The elder had vanished, torchlight casting long, dancing shadows across the murals. But the real storm was inside him.
His right hand began to ache.
He looked down.
The mark.
Etched into his skin—deep, jagged lines forming the head of a wolf. It hadn't burned before. Not like this. Now it pulsed beneath his skin, glowing like embers, the heat threading through his veins.
He clenched his fist, jaw tight.
Then came the urge.
Not words. Not thoughts.
Just instinct.
Hunt.Dominate.Run.
He shook his head. "No—no, I'm not this."
Then why does it feel so right?
The question slithered through his thoughts—too natural to ignore, too foreign to accept. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. The air thickened. His senses sharpened—he smelled scorched herbs, the sweat of fear on his skin, and blood… somewhere nearby.
His breath quickened.
His fingers twitched, nails scraping stone. The mark flared. Strength surged through him like a jolt of lightning.
He jumped to his feet. The world snapped into sharp focus. Muscles alive, hearing tuned to every sound. Even air across his skin felt electric.
And his emotions—God, they weren't human anymore.
Everything was brighter. Louder. More dangerous.
Frustration twisted like a spring in his chest. Why had no one warned him? Why was he alone?
Rage pulsed through him.
"I'm not a monster!" he shouted into the darkness.
His voice echoed through the cave.
The carvings shimmered again—especially the lone wolf. Its eyes seemed brighter.
Watching.
Waiting.
Suddenly, the elder reappeared—silent, deliberate. He pointed down a narrow passageway. Ryan didn't need words. He knew: he was meant to follow.
They walked deeper into the sanctuary. Past stone halls and slumbering roots, until the air shimmered—not from fire, but from power.
The walls narrowed… then opened.
A domed chamber revealed itself, carved from the oldest part of the mountain.
At its center: a massive stone slab, surrounded by ever-burning torches with flames of cold blue.
The Wall of Flame.
Not metaphorical. Literal.
Molten gold ran across its surface, carved in ancient runes that flickered like living flame. They moved subtly—alive, like the mountain itself breathed through them.
Ryan stepped forward, drawn to the center.
There it was.
A mural of a lone figure—half-man, half-beast—standing in fire and shadow. One hand outstretched. A wolf-shaped mark blazed in his flesh.
The same mark that now burned in Ryan's.
His throat tightened. "That's…"
"Kael," the elder said reverently. "The first to bear the scars of fire. The first chosen by the wild without bloodline. The one who rose when our kind had no future."
Ryan's hand throbbed. His mark pulsed as if in recognition. He curled his fingers.
"He was… like me?" he whispered.
"In ways that even I fear," the elder answered.
Ryan turned to him, storm in his eyes. "Why me? You said I was chosen. But why?"
The old man placed his clawed hand gently on Kael's carving.
"Because you were born without a pack… and still, the world bowed."
Ryan's thoughts spiraled. He wasn't a warrior. Not a leader. He wasn't even supposed to exist like this.
But this place.This wall.This mark…
They all said otherwise.
He looked up again. The flames danced across Kael's mural. His eyes glowed.
You are not the first, they seemed to whisper. But you may be the last.
The firelight flickered across the walls as Ryan's breath slowed—but the weight of everything stayed.
Then—
A sharp voice split the air.
"You expect us to kneel to a boy who howled once?"
From the shadows stepped a tall figure—muscular, sharp-eyed, bristling with disdain.
Darik.
A young Beta. Scarred. Proud. Dangerous.
His eyes narrowed on Ryan's mark. "That crest doesn't make you Alpha. It makes you a target."
Tension thickened. Other wolves murmured behind him.
Ryan's claws flexed against stone, but his voice stayed level. "I didn't ask for this."
Darik stepped closer, voice like stone grinding. "No one ever does. But power isn't given. It's taken."
He lunged.
Ryan barely dodged.
They clashed in a burst of motion—claws scraping, growls rising. The chamber echoed with the thud of fists and the gasps of the pack.
Ryan stepped back, chest heaving. "This isn't just about me. The Blood Moon chose me—for a reason."
Darik sneered. "Then prove it."
The challenge settled like a storm cloud over the room.
Ryan's emotions boiled—fear, fury, confusion.
His arm lit up.
The mark exploded with red-gold light, burning like wildfire.
His body spasmed. Bones cracked. His form twisted—
A partial transformation surged through him—violent, unrelenting.
"Resist it!" the elder shouted, desperation in his voice.
But Ryan couldn't.
He dropped to his knees, swallowed by the shift. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.
And then—it roared.
Not from his throat.
But from something deeper.
Something that was no longer asking to be free.
It was demanding.