Fenrik was ambition given wolf form. Sleek and lean, with eyes that gleamed with avarice, he had always yearned for more. More power, more territory, more acclaim. He was a master manipulator, weaving words and deeds to elevate himself, always seeking approval, always searching for a greater stage. His small, obedient pack was a testament to his cunning, but he craved dominion, a vast empire under his command. So when the rumors of the Primordial Wolf, the "Varkolak," reached his cunning ears, a thrill, cold and sharp, shot through him. A being of such power would be a formidable obstacle, yes, but also an unparalleled opportunity.
He tracked the legend for weeks, following the hushed whispers of awe and terror that trailed in his wake. He heard of his silent majesty, his effortless dominion, his eyes of swirling crimson. Fenrik dismissed the fear; he saw only the potential. If he could align himself with such a force, if he could stand in his shadow, perhaps even guide him, then true power would be within his grasp.
Fenrik finally found him in a valley carved by glaciers, a place of stark, beautiful desolation. The Primordial Wolf was a solitary figure, larger than any creature Fenrik had ever seen, his fur a void against the pale rock. He stood by a glacial lake, motionless, as if contemplating the infinite reflections on the surface. Fenrik's pack, hidden in the sparse cover, whimpered, their instincts screaming caution. But Fenrik felt only a surge of desperate excitement. This was it. His chance.
He emerged from the shadows, head held high, a calculated subservience in his posture that belied the storm of ambition raging within. "Greetings, Alpha of Alphas," Fenrik began, his voice smooth and respectful, yet carrying a subtle undercurrent of carefully managed confidence. "My pack and I have traveled far, drawn by the whispers of your legend. We offer our loyalty, our strength, if you would but have us."
The black wolf turned his head slowly, those terrifying, intricate crimson eyes fixing on Fenrik. There was no recognition, no interest, no warmth. Just the ancient, detached observation Fenrik had heard described. It was infuriating. Fenrik was not accustomed to being ignored. He was a force to be reckoned with, a clever mind. He had planned this speech, rehearsed his deferential yet subtly powerful approach.
"We are strong, Alpha," Fenrik continued, raising his voice slightly, injecting a hint of urgency. "We are skilled hunters, fierce fighters. Our numbers are small, but our loyalty is absolute. Imagine what we could achieve together. A pack under your command, unmatched in this world."
A long, silent moment passed. The only sound was the distant groan of the glacier. Fenrik's heart hammered, a mix of frustration and a strange, desperate hope. He needed this. He needed to be acknowledged. He needed to be chosen.
Then, the Primordial Wolf moved. Not towards Fenrik, but towards the lake. He lowered his immense head and drank, the still water barely rippling. It was an act of profound indifference, a dismissal more cutting than any roar. Fenrik's carefully constructed façade cracked. His eyes narrowed, a cold fire burning in their depths. He had offered loyalty, and he had been treated as less than the dust underfoot.
A desperate, foolish impulse seized him. "You would turn away strength?" Fenrik snarled, the politeness vanishing, replaced by raw, wounded pride. "You would remain a lonely god when you could command an empire?"
The crimson eyes lifted from the water, fixing on Fenrik once more. This time, there was a subtle shift. Not anger, not even annoyance, but a flicker of something ancient and knowing. It was as if the Varkolac saw through Fenrik's ambition, saw the shallow calculations beneath the surface, and found them utterly uninteresting. And then, without another glance, he turned and began to walk away, scaling the rocky incline with an effortless power that made Fenrik's own strength seem puny.
Fenrik stood, trembling with a potent mix of humiliation and simmering rage. He had tried to impress, to manipulate, and he had been utterly, profoundly disregarded. The black wolf had not even deigned to acknowledge him as a threat, let alone a valuable ally. The taste of failure was bitter on his tongue. Yet, as the immense form disappeared over the ridge, leaving behind only the profound silence, a new seed of ambition sprouted in Fenrik's mind. He had failed to impress, yes. But he had glimpsed a power beyond imagining. A power that, if he could not gain through loyalty, he would find another way to harness. He would prove his worth, not by begging for recognition, but by acquiring a power that even the Varkolak could not ignore. The resentment curdled into a cold, determined resolve. The stage was set, and Fenrik would play his part, even if it meant playing a dangerous game.