The Wampa remembered.
Not the echo of battle or the weight of blood on snow—those came later.
No, what returned first was the wind. The cold, unyielding wind that howled across the plains, whipping up white curtains of frost that bit into flesh and blurred the line between earth and sky.
Back then, this place didn't even have a name.
No kingdoms. No borders. No bastions of order staking claims on land they barely understood.
No "North."
Just chaos.
Monsters, demons, humans—all clawing at each other like rats trapped in a frozen box. There was no balance. No alliances. No grand reason for the violence.
Kill, or be killed.
He thrived in it.
Back then, he wasn't called a guardian. Wasn't bound to relics or ancient pacts. He was just... him. A beast born of snow and storm. The apex predator of the white fields.
Thick fur that the cold couldn't pierce. Layers of fat like armor. Limbs that cracked boulders when he stretched. Claws that left scars across hillsides.
