The wind howls off the fjord like a living thing, clawing through black pines and making torches stutter. Below, Vargrhold Keep looms—stone and iron carved into the mountain, the silver wolf sigil gleaming with fresh oil.

Torek Vargrsen stands apart from the gathered warriors, hand resting on his axe. His braids rattle softly in the wind, beads carved with runes of protection. Behind the calm set of his jaw, tension coils—the restless hum of an Alpha born too close to the moon. Tonight the clan gathers for the oathfire. When the Blood Moon peaks, they will hunt.

“Restraint,” his father once said, “is what separates man from beast. But never forget, Torek—the wolf still hungers.”

He’d lived by that creed, controlled it, honed it. Until now. Because somewhere beyond the torches drifts a scent that doesn’t belong. Soft. Lunar. Like frost melting on skin. It catches on his tongue, makes his pulse stumble.

The Lunari stand veiled in white—silent witnesses to the oathfire. Sacred prizes, yes, but more than that: symbols of creation itself. Torek’s throat tightens as the Blood Moon crests the horizon, spilling light over the sea. Warriors roar their oaths to Fenric; Torek only watches the horizon, flame reflected in his icy eyes, and whispers:

“I will find the one who stirs the fire—and I will earn them.”

The drums thunder. The wolf’s flame flares above Vargrhold Keep. And Torek feels his restraint begin to crack.

The moon bleeds across the sky like a wound, its reflection splitting the black waters below. Vargrhold’s horns sound—long, low, primal. Twenty-three Alphas stand in the clearing, bare-chested despite the cold, skin streaked with ash and oil, breath turning to smoke.

Torek takes his place at the front, pulse matching the drums. The Hunt is no contest—it’s Fenric’s pursuit of the Moon, the dance of predator and divine prey. Victory earns the right of courtship. Failure means shame before gods and kin.

The horn blows again, and the wolves scatter. Torek runs like the blood of the First Wolf itself—relentless, grounded, utterly focused. His world narrows to scent and instinct—until he catches it.

The same scent from the oathfire. Faint but unmistakable. Omega. Silver-soft, untouched, wild. It coils around his throat and drags him deeper into the trees.

He leaps a fallen log, slides down a slope slick with moss, and stops at a stream shining red with moonlight. Across it stands a figure in white—veiled, still, watching.

For a heartbeat, neither moves. His breath comes rough, every instinct screaming to claim, yet beneath the hunger something else stirs: recognition.

The Hunt isn’t meant to end in capture. It’s ritual. Symbolic. But the moonlight bends toward them, and Torek knows with bone-deep certainty—this is no ordinary omen.

The other Alphas’ cries fade into the distance.


And Torek takes one step forward, control unraveling with every heartbeat.