The glacier was breaking.
Not from heat.
Not from time.
But from sound.
Cracks spiderwebbed through the ice,
not with the sharp snap of fracture,
but with a low, resonant hum,
like a string pulled too tight.
The frozen beasts within —
long, coiled, wolf-shaped —
began to shift,
not in movement,
but in memory.
Kai and Lena stood at the edge of the cavern,
hand in hand,
breath steaming in the cold.
The marks on their bodies glowed —
hers silver,
his gray —
pulsing in time,
like hearts sharing one rhythm.
They had not slept.
Had not eaten.
Had not spoken since the convergence.
But they did not need to.
They knew.
The Hollow Fang was coming.
Not from the north.
Not from the dark.
But from within the world itself —
a wound wearing a man's shape,
a hunger wearing a howl.
And it would not stop until the song was silenced.
It came at dusk.
Not with wind.
Not with storm.
But with silence —
a dome of stillness that rolled across the ice,
snuffing sound like a hand over a flame.
Birds fell mid-flight.
Snow hung in the air.
Even the distant sea stilled.
Then —
a figure emerged from the mist.
Tall.
Too tall.
Its limbs too long,
its joints bending where they shouldn't.
Its skin not flesh,
but shadow-stuff, clinging like smoke to a skeleton of bone and ice.
And where its face should be —
not eyes,
not mouth —
but a circular void,
like a throat turned outward.
It did not walk.
It advanced —
each step making the ice shudder,
not from weight,
but from dissonance.
Kai stepped forward.
The runes on his back flared —
not red,
not gold,
but black,
like veins of tar.
He opened his mouth.
And for the first time in years —
he howled.
Not in rage.
Not in challenge.
But in defiance.
The sound tore from his chest —
raw, guttural,
a man trying to wear the Wolf again.
The ice cracked.
The sky darkened.
But the Hollow Fang did not flinch.
It opened its throat —
and answered.
Not a howl.
Not a scream.
But a note —
low, wrong,
like a chord played backward.
It didn't echo.
It unmade echo.
Where it passed,
the snow turned to dust.
The air tasted of rust.
Kai fell to one knee.
His howl died in his throat.
The runes on his back bled —
not blood,
but black smoke.
Lena ran to him.
Placed her hands on his chest.
But he shook his head.
"It doesn't want to fight me," he gasped.
"It wants to* silence the song.*"
He looked at her.
"And it can't do that…
unless you sing."
She stared at the Hollow Fang.
At the void where its face should be.
At the way it watched her —
not with hunger,
but with recognition.
"You know me," she whispered.
Not in English.
In the old tongue.
"You were one of us."
The Hollow Fang stilled.
Then —
from its chest —
a second mouth opened.
And it spoke —
not in words,
but in a voice made of broken harmonies:
"I was the first Alpha.
I was the first to kneel.
I was the first to* hunger.
And when the Beta sang to calm me —
I tore out her throat…
and wore her voice."*
It stepped closer.
"The Wolf does not want balance.
It wants worship.
And I will be its* god."
Lena did not flinch.
"You're not a god," she said.
"You're a* lie.*"
She turned to Kai.
"Help me."
He looked at her.
"I don't have the strength."
"You don't need strength," she said.
"You need to* listen."
She took his hand.
Placed it over her heart.
"Sing with me.
Not as Alpha.
Not as Wolf.
As man.*"
He closed his eyes.
Nodded.
Together, they knelt.
Not in surrender.
In offering.
And Lena began to sing.
Not the Oath.
Not the lullaby.
Not the song of the temple or the nuns.
But something older —
a single, pure note —
the one the Wolf had sung before it was split,
before it was feared,
before it was worn.
And Kai —
his voice broken, his body failing —
answered.
Not in howl.
Not in growl.
But in human voice,
cracked, raw,
singing the same note,
not to command,
but to remember.
The Hollow Fang screamed —
a sound that split the sky —
and lunged.
But the ice rose.
Not to stop it.
To carry it.
The glacier cracked open —
not with violence,
but with song —
and from its depths,
the frozen beasts emerged —
not as flesh,
but as sound made visible —
long, luminous shapes of blue light,
coiling around the Hollow Fang,
not to attack,
but to unmake.
And the song grew.
Not louder.
Not fiercer.
But truer.
Lena sang of the first snow.
Kai sang of the last fire.
The ice sang of memory.
The wind sang of return.
And the Hollow Fang —
the first Alpha,
the first betrayer,
the first hunger —
began to dissolve.
Not in death.
In release.
Its shadow-stuff peeled away.
Its bones cracked.
And from within —
not a monster —
but a man,
old, broken,
weeping.
And in his hand —
a shard of black ice.
The same one from Haldor's dream.
The same one from Yrsa's vision.
He looked at Lena.
And whispered —
in a voice that was finally his own:
"I forgot how to come back."
She did not flinch.
She stepped forward.
Took the shard.
And sang one final note —
not to destroy,
but to forgive.
The shard melted.
The man dissolved.
The Hollow Fang was gone.
And the world —
the whole, broken, dying world —
inhaled.
Silence.
Then —
from the cavern,
from the ice,
from the sky —
a single, clear howl.
Not of rage.
Not of hunger.
But of relief.
Kai fell into Lena's arms.
His runes were gone.
His mark — faded.
The Wolf —
not dead.
Not caged.
But free.
And for the first time in centuries,
it did not wear a man.
It walked beside one.
Lena held him.
Looked up at the sky —
now clear,
now bright with stars that had not shone in years.
And whispered:
"It's not the end."
"It's the first breath."
And far away —
in Oslo,
in Prague,
in New York,
in the drowned ruins of the Black Fen —
twelve people —
Alpha and Beta,
old and young,
marked and unmarked —
woke from the same dream.
And began to sing.