Cold wind swept across Wolfheart Castle, rattling banners and carrying the sharp scent of pine from the forest beyond the river. Torches glowed along the battlements, painting the stone walls with flickering orange light.
A boy sat alone on the highest ledge, legs dangling over open air, staring at three statues below.
Riven Wolfhart.
Sixteen.
Silver-white hair.
Golden eyes full of storms he never spoke aloud.
Teacher Orrin — carved with a scroll and a gentle smile.
The Former King Crage — cloak flowing, sword sheathed in peace.
Luther Wolfhart — blade lowered, half-smile frozen in stone.
Riven whispered to his father's statue,
"…I hope I'm worth something."
The cold stone kept its silence.
It always did.
Heavy footsteps approached.
"You'll break your neck one day, boy," a deep voice rumbled.
Riven didn't turn. "You've said that since I was ten."
"And you've ignored it since you were ten."
A large figure sat beside him, armor creaking, stone complaining.
Commander Garrick Stonepaw — built like a fortress, a scar across one brow, beard like winter fur.
"Remembrance Night," Garrick said. "You always come up here before it starts."
Riven's voice dropped.
"They'll talk about my father again. And then they'll look at me."
"Let them," Garrick replied. "You're Riven. Not Luther."
Riven forced a smile. "Try telling them that."
A shout echoed from below:
"RIVEEEEN! IF YOU JUMP AGAIN, I'M NOT CATCHING YOU!"
Riven leaned over the wall.
A boy with sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes stood there, holding two meat rolls and a wooden sword.
Rowan Stonepaw.
Riven dropped from the ledge—landing lightly as if gravity itself stepped aside.
Rowan pointed at him. "STOP DOING THAT! DO YOU HATE STAIRS?!"
Riven stole a meat roll. "Stairs are for slow people."
"You're INSANE."
Their argument was cut short when Garrick landed behind them with a thud that shook dust from the stone.
"Training. Move."
Rowan groaned. "Can't we train when the sun wakes up?!"
"It's evening," Garrick replied.
"THEN THE SUN IS TAKING A NAP!"
Across the courtyard, healers arranged herbs and bandages.
Among them stood Lyra Moonveil — white hair in a neat braid, blue eyes gentle, hands steady.
Even wolves resting near her seemed calmer.
She looked up and smiled softly.
"Good evening, Riven."
Riven opened his mouth—no sound came out.
Rowan sighed. "He says 'good evening.' His brain froze."
Lyra giggled.
Riven wished the stones would swallow him whole.
Garrick clapped loudly.
"FORM UP!"
Soldiers gathered at the ring. Wolves sat near the edges. Children climbed onto crates for a better view.
A calm voice carried across the courtyard.
King Edran of Wolfheart walked forward—tall, steady, silver-blue cloak trailing behind him.
"We honor those who died protecting Lunir," he said. "But peace survives only because we defend it. Tonight, our young wolves show that Wolfheart still stands."
Applause rippled through the crowd.
Garrick pointed.
"Riven Wolfhart. First match."
Instant whispers:
Luther's son.
Let's see if he's worthy.
Riven stepped into the ring.
Across from him stood Halden's apprentice—older, taller, confident.
Riven raised his fists.
"BEGIN!"
The apprentice charged.
Riven pivoted—quick, precise—tap to the wrist.
Clean contact.
"Point," Garrick said.
Surprised murmurs spread.
Second round came faster.
A punch slammed into Riven's ribs. Pain burst through him. The crowd tensed—
—but he stayed on his feet.
He swept the apprentice's legs—clean takedown.
"Point!"
Rowan shouted, "THAT'S MY BEST FRIEND! FACE OF AN ANGEL, HEART OF A DEMON!"
Lyra smiled, relieved.
For a moment, Riven felt something he rarely felt:
Enough.
Then he felt something else.
A presence.
Someone watching him.
Riven looked up at the far wall.
A tall, hooded man stood there, arms folded, half-hidden by torchlight.
Not a guard.
Not a passerby.
His posture said everything:
Controlled.
Calm.
Dangerous.
Before Riven could blink, the man turned and walked along the wall until the shadows swallowed him from sight. No disappearing. No magic. Just a man leaving without a word.
Riven knew that walk.
Only two men in Wolfheart moved like that:
Commander Garrick.
And Valen Wolfhart.
His uncle.
The strongest werewolf alive.
Everyone in Wolfheart knew where Valen lived — a quiet village across the river.
He never hid.
He never fled.
He simply refused the castle.
Because the castle held a statue he couldn't bear to see.
Later, Remembrance lanterns lit the courtyard.
Wolves curled near fires.
Families sang the songs of the fallen.
But Riven sat apart, perched on a stone pillar, staring across the dark forest.
Something was wrong.
The trees were too still.
Too silent.
Then he saw them.
Two white eyes glowing faintly between the trees.
Not wolf eyes.
Not human.
Something else.
His heart stopped.
Soft footsteps approached behind him.
Riven turned.
A tall hooded man stood near the back gate—cloak torn, posture unmistakable.
Valen.
He stepped closer. Two fingers touched Riven's chest.
"Stay with your people," he said quietly. "Protect the boy and the healer."
Riven's breath caught.
"…Uncle Valen?"
Valen didn't answer.
Howls erupted from the forest—deep, violent, wrong.
A horn blasted.
"TO ARMS!" Garrick roared.
Wolves shifted, bones reshaping with vicious cracks.
Soldiers formed ranks.
Healers grabbed supplies.
Lyra pulled Rowan behind the crates.
Riven stared toward the treeline.
The white eyes blinked—
and something stepped out.
A massive werewolf.
Black-furred.
Breathing like a beast born from nightmares.
Not Valen.
Something corrupted.
Riven whispered, trembling,
"…This can't be real."
The creature roared—
and charged the gate.