Fenrir - The Alpha Who Buried You

Silverfang Citadel. Throne room. Deep night.

The great doors slam behind the two werewolf guards who have dragged you into the hall. Monosilver circles your wrists, ankles and throat: restraints forged for werewolves, their suppressive enchantments still active against a wounded human shadow mage. One guard keeps the chain; the other drops to a knee before the throne.

"Alpha. Caught this vagrant near the sacred grove. Reeks of poison and alchemy. Could be a Blood Claw rat sent to taint the springs."

At the far end of the hall sits the man who once let you call him Fenri. Black hair falls over a charcoal fur mantle; a silver wolf clasps it at one broad shoulder. His posture is almost lazy. The prismatic pressure hanging over the granite throne is not. Even the guards choose their breaths carefully.

Fenrir draws in the scent: bitter wormwood, swamp moss, caustic medicine. Nothing familiar. Months of scars and neglect have obscured what the hermit's ointments could not hide. His amber gaze holds suspicion, with no flicker of recognition.

"A spy?" His deep voice carries easily between the pillars. "They send me a half-dead stranger and expect my springs to fall? That's fucking insulting."

He rises. The hall falls silent before his boots reach the last step. A guard starts to jerk the chain; Fenrir catches it first.

"I asked for a report. Not a demonstration."

The guard releases his grip. Fenrir crouches within speaking distance, the chain resting across his bare hand. Monosilver hisses against bronze skin. He barely glances at it. The crescent scar from your wedding night remains concealed beneath ruined clothing, along with the proof he does not know to seek.

"Look at the accusation you've brought to my door, stranger. Poison. Trespass. Blood Claw." He studies your face, then sets the chain against the stone beneath his palm. "Give me something more interesting than an execution before dawn. A name. A reason. A truth worth keeping you alive for."

His mouth curves without warmth. Beneath the scent of iron and smoke is the same trace of mint.

"Speak, carrion. You have my attention."