The night felt wrong before anything moved.
The air was too still. The fires of Firsthaven burned too cleanly. No insects hummed near the ground. No distant cries of beasts echoed across the plains.
It was as if the world were holding its breath.
Sophus walked along the inner side of the wall with slow, careful steps, the spear resting lightly in his grip. His body was a mass of dull aches and compressed tension. Every muscle felt wound tight. Every bone carried weight.
Body Forging had reached its end.
He could feel it in every breath, in the way his strength no longer grew, only condensed. Pushing further by flesh alone would break him.
The world seemed to know it too.
Polemos paced ahead of him, rolling his shoulders. "I feel it again. Same as last night. Only worse."
"Yes," Sophus said.
"Feels like something big watching," Polemos said.
Sophus stopped and looked out across the plains. The tall grass swayed under a faint wind. The moon hung distant and pale.
"It is watching," he said.
Polemos frowned. "You sure."
"Yes."
He did not have proof. He did not need it. Wisdom and instinct whispered the same thing.
Somewhere beyond sight, eyes were studying them.
Not as prey.
As a problem.
…
By the time the moon reached the middle of the sky, the mood in Firsthaven had turned sharp and brittle. Hunters tightened grips on weapons. Mothers kept children closer. Elders sat near the fires, muttering old habits and half-formed prayers.
Thalara organized small patrols along the wall, ensuring no section was left unattended. Valerius checked weak points, testing the stones with the end of his staff. Arete adjusted the supports around the forge, making sure nothing flammable sat too close to huts in case of battle. Alexios arranged herbs and water for quick treatment. Aletheia moved among the people, speaking quietly, steadying hearts without using many words.
Chronicus scribbled on bark at the edge of it all, trying to catch the feeling of the night in rough symbols and careful lines.
Sophus returned to the northern wall.
He felt the pressure in the air grow.
Then the wolves came.
….
They emerged like shadows sliding between blades of grass.
No howls.
No prelude.
Shapes moving through the night.
Sophus saw the first one: a low, dark form gliding along the ground, then another to its right, and more behind. Their formation was not random. They moved in curved lines, almost mirroring the arc of Firsthaven's wall.
"Wolves," a sentry whispered.
"Positions," Sophus said, voice calm but clear.
The command spread quickly.
Hunters moved to the walls. Spears, sticks, and stones were raised. The fires were stoked higher so their light pushed farther into the darkness.
The wolves kept advancing.
The air felt tighter with every step they took.
Then he saw it.
The lead wolf.
Larger than the rest, its fur darker where shadows clung, streaked with faint silver that caught the moonlight. Its movements were smoother, more controlled. No wasted motion. No reckless charge.
Its eyes found Sophus on the wall.
The world seemed to narrow.
Polemos's voice came low and tight. "That one. It different."
"Yes," Sophus said.
He remembered teeth.
He remembered tearing pain.
He remembered cold earth and warm blood mixing.
He remembered fear, for himself and for his tribe.
This was the same wolf.
The one from the forest.
The one that had nearly killed him.
It walked forward slowly, the other wolves spreading out to either side as if guided by its will.
Valerius reached the wall, stance already set, knuckles white around his staff. "Yesterday was test. Today is real."
Sophus lowered his spear slightly. "Today we answer."
….
The wolves did not crash into the wall blindly.
They slowed as they neared, wary of the raised weapons, the firelight, the height. Their paws moved silently over the ground. Their eyes judged distance and angle.
The large wolf stopped within stone-throwing range.
It sat.
Just sat.
Its gaze locked on Sophus's.
The other wolves remained standing, muscles tense.
"That not normal," Polemos muttered. "Beast not sit in middle of attack."
Sophus did not take his eyes off the wolf. "This one not simple beast."
For several long heartbeats, they stared at each other.
Sophus felt something strange.
Not sound.
Not speech.
Intent.
It was as if the wolf weighed him. Measured him. Compared him to the human he had been in the forest.
You have changed, that gaze seemed to say.
So have I.
The wolf rose.
It moved its head slightly, a tiny gesture.
The smaller wolves responded instantly.
They fanned out to the left and right.
"East and west," Sophus said quietly. "They split us."
"Then we split too," Polemos said.
Sophus nodded. "Go. Take six hunters to the west side. Valerius, six to the east."
"And you," Valerius asked.
"I stay here."
They hesitated only a moment before obeying. They trusted him now, even when they did not fully understand.
Within moments, the wall was manned along its length. The wolves continued their arc.
The lead wolf stayed in front of Sophus.
Waiting.
….
The first clash came at the eastern wall.
A chorus of snarls, shouts, the sound of wood striking flesh. Valerius's voice rose above the noise, calling commands, keeping the line steady.
Then the western wall shook with its own struggle.
Polemos's roar carried through the night, raw and wild, urging hunters to strike harder, to hold ground.
The central section where Sophus stood remained silent.
Only the large wolf watched him.
Sophus tightened his grip on the spear. He could feel his heart pounding, but the beat was steady.
His body thrummed with the dense strength of late Body Forging.
His mind was clear.
The wolf moved.
Not toward the walls.
Around them.
It began circling Firsthaven in a wide, deliberate path. It kept just outside the reach of thrown spears, just beyond the arc of simple attacks.
Sophus realized what it was doing.
It tested for weak spots.
He walked along the wall, matching its pace.
Where he went, it watched.
When he stopped, it watched.
When he moved again, it moved too.
"This is not just a beast," Sophus whispered.
It was a hunter examining another predator's den.
The fights at east and west continued, but did not escalate into chaos. The humans fought hard and with better coordination than before. Spear-like sticks found ribs. Stones struck heads. Wolves bled and fell.
But the large wolf never joined those clashes.
It made one slow circle around Firsthaven.
Then it made a second.
By the third, Sophus could feel the pattern.
It is learning our rhythm, he thought.
And then, without warning, it attacked.
….
It sprinted toward the northern wall with terrifying speed.
Its body blurred, muscles flexing, claws tearing up chunks of earth. It leaped just before the wall, bounding up the stacked stones with practiced ease.
"Here," Sophus called. "Now."
He braced himself.
The wolf crested the wall, claws scraping stone, and lunged at him. Its jaws opened wide, rows of teeth glinting.
Sophus thrust the spear.
The metal tip met the wolf's chest.
This time, the wolf did not attempt to dodge. It twisted its body slightly, taking the blow along its side rather than straight through the heart.
The spearhead sank deep.
The wolf snarled, blood spraying across the stones.
Sophus felt the shock of impact travel through his arms, shoulders, spine. His muscles screamed.
He held firm.
The wolf twisted violently, wrenching itself off the spear before it could be pinned fully. Blood poured from the wound, dark and thick.
It landed on the inside of the wall.
Inside Firsthaven.
Hunters gasped.
The wolf staggered.
Polemos sprinted toward it, roaring, "Now. Kill it."
"Stop," Sophus snapped.
Polemos skidded, confused. "What."
The wolf lowered its head, eyes still fixed on Sophus. Its breathing came harsh and ragged. Blood dripped steadily onto the ground.
It could attack.
It did not.
Instead, it stepped backward.
Slow.
Measured.
Controlling its pain.
It looked at Sophus the way a seasoned warrior looked at another after a hard exchange.
Acknowledgment.
Recognition.
A promise.
Sophus understood.
If we push now, we risk breaking body, he thought. We risk shattering the spear too. Not just weapon. Path.
His whole being felt stretched to its limit. The pressure inside him pressed harder, as if his body would crack if he forced more effort through late Body Forging.
"Let it leave," Sophus said.
Polemos stared at him. "You serious."
"Yes."
"It come back stronger," Polemos said.
"I know."
The wolf continued to retreat, eyes never leaving Sophus. It reached the wall, gathered itself, and leaped back over. Its claws scraped stone, hind legs slipping slightly from loss of strength.
It landed outside Firsthaven.
Blood marked its path as it moved away.
The smaller wolves, seeing their leader wounded but not fallen, disengaged from the east and west walls. They did not retreat in panic. They faded back, drawing away with controlled movements.
Within moments, the plains were nearly silent again.
Only the smell of blood and the sound of heavy breathing remained.
….
The tribe gathered slowly.
Hunters from east and west drifted toward the center, bruised and bloodied, but alive. A few lay on stretchers, wounds torn into their arms or legs. None were dead.
Alexios rushed among them, checking injuries, applying herbs, and binding wounds. Thalara organized the movement of the injured with clipped, firm orders. Arete examined the spear as soon as Sophus handed it to her.
She traced the stained edge with a finger. "You struck deep."
"Yes," Sophus said.
"But not enough to kill."
"Not this time."
She looked up at him. "You could have finished it when it was inside wall."
Sophus held her gaze. "At cost of what."
"Your body," Alexios answered quietly as he joined them. "You are at limit, Sophus. I see your hands tremble. Your breath strain."
Sophus flexed his fingers.
They were shaking.
Every part of him pulsed with fatigue and compressed pain.
"The stage is done," he said quietly. "Body cannot grow more. If I force, it breaks."
Arete looked at the spear again. "And if the spear breaks fighting a beast like that, we lose more than metal."
Sophus nodded.
The tribe was listening now, though they pretended not to.
Polemos folded his arms, jaw clenched. "So we let it live."
"For now," Sophus said.
Valerius, leaning on his staff, spoke. "That thing is not just beast. It thinks. It studies. It will remember you."
Sophus looked toward the plains. The wolf was gone, but its presence lingered.
"Yes," he said. "It will remember."
"And you want that," Thalara asked.
Sophus inhaled slowly.
"I want it to grow," he said.
They stared at him.
"Why," Polemos demanded.
"Because humans not only ones climbing," Sophus replied. "If world stay weak, we learn nothing. If world grow strong, we must grow stronger."
Polemos shook his head. "Sometimes I think your Wisdom strange."
Sophus almost smiled. "It is."
….
Later, after wounds were treated and watches reassigned, Sophus walked alone away from Firsthaven, just far enough to feel the night fully and hear nothing but wind.
He held the spear loosely now, point down, the butt trailing against the ground.
His body throbbed. The woundless pain of a stage at its end. The pressure inside him had become unbearable.
His breath felt too powerful for the body carrying it.
He stopped, planting the spear in the soil.
Sweat ran down his back despite the cold.
He closed his eyes.
He saw again the image of the wolf forcing itself off the spear. Saw the controlled retreat. Saw the understanding in its eyes.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
Recognition.
We will meet again, that look had said.
You will not be small when we do.
Sophus drew a breath that felt like iron scraping his ribs.
Body Forging.
The words formed clearly in his mind.
This stage was never about power.
It was about survival.
It was about stripping away the softness that broke under pressure, molding flesh into something that could stand against a world that grew sharper every day.
He saw his own path, from the moment the wolf first tore into his flesh in the forest, to the first time he trained beyond exhaustion, to the purging of impurities, to this moment now.
"My body is forged," he said quietly.
Saying it made it real.
"The flesh cannot go further. It will only break if I push. It is ready now. For a foundation."
The pressure inside him seemed to push harder at that acceptance.
His shoulders trembled.
His hands shook around the spearshaft.
Soon.
Not tonight.
But soon.
He opened his eyes and looked back toward Firsthaven.
The fires glowed warm. Shapes moved within. A small, fragile beginning of civilization amid a world of beasts.
Somewhere far beyond the horizon, a wounded wolf limped into deeper wilderness, dripping blood on the ground. That blood would call other powers. The pain would carve strength. The struggle would twist its path upward.
Sophus and that wolf were bound now.
Predator and prey.
Hunter and hunted.
Future god and future divine beast.
He pulled the spear from the ground and rested it against his shoulder.
"Grow strong," he said to the night. "So when we meet again, it matter."
The wind carried his words away.
Firsthaven waited.
The world watched.
And somewhere in the deep dark, the beast that would become Fenrir bared its bloodied teeth and continued to live.