The forest remembered.
Seasons turned, years drifted, and still the songs of wolves wove through the pines. But woven into those songs now was something new, something unspoken—the sound of footsteps lighter than a wolf's, yet heavier than a man's.
Arin was born of both.
On the night of his birth, the moon had turned the color of blood. Mira's cries had echoed through the den while Kael prowled outside, torn between protectiveness and fear. When the child's first howl rang out—a raw, quivering note that rose higher and clearer than any infant's cry—the pack lifted their muzzles in answer. They knew then: this was no ordinary cub.
Arin grew quickly, his limbs strong and restless. As a boy, he played in the river's edge, his mother's laughter drifting over the ripples. As a wolf pup, he stumbled after Kael's massive shadow, eager to prove himself with every hunt. He was both child and cub, human and wolf, and yet at times he felt he was neither.
