Riven Thorn did not sleep.
He lay still in the hollow he'd claimed beneath the ruined sector of Threxa, listening to the underground world breathe around him. Water dripped somewhere far off. Stone groaned under its own weight. Above it all, there was the faintest hum territorial pressure bleeding down from stronger wolves who ruled the upper layers.
Even resting, he felt watched.
His wounds had closed hours ago. Flesh knit together with unnatural speed, leaving only faint lines where claws and teeth had torn him open. The healing should have comforted him.
Instead, it frightened him.
Every time his body repaired itself, it felt less like recovery and more like adaptation. As if something inside him was learning from pain and storing the lesson away.
Low Wolf Awakened.
The rank sat heavy in his chest, a quiet certainty rather than a title. He didn't need anyone to tell him he'd crossed a threshold. He could feel it in the way his senses reached farther now, in how the darkness no longer pressed in on him but parted slightly when he moved.
Still, he was weak.
He learned that truth the moment he tried to hunt.
The tunnels opened into a lower market zone just before dawn an illegal meeting ground where rogue wolves, exiles, and low-ranking pack members gathered to trade favors, information, and flesh. The air was thick with blood-scent and fear, layered so deeply it made his head spin.
Riven kept to the edges, hood pulled low.
He watched.
Low Wolves fought openly here. Claw Wolves enforced crude order. Every movement was a test who flinched, who bowed their head, who dared to hold eye contact for half a second too long.
Authority ruled everything.
Riven felt it brush against him again and again, mental pressure probing for weakness. Each time, his chest tightened, his instincts snarled… and the pressure slipped away.
Defiant Will, he realized.
He wasn't immune yet. But suppression didn't crush him the way it should. Instead, it sparked something stubborn and burning inside his core.
That drew attention.
A Claw Wolf noticed first a scar-faced enforcer with one arm partially transformed, claws permanently extended like curved knives.
"You," the wolf growled, blocking Riven's path. "I don't recognize your scent."
Riven stopped.
"I'm not part of a pack."
Murmurs rippled nearby.
The Claw Wolf smiled. "Then you're food."
The strike came fast too fast for a human, but not fast enough for Riven anymore. He twisted aside, barely avoiding the claws, and retaliated with a punch that cracked against the wolf's ribs.
Pain shot up his arm.
The Claw Wolf laughed. "That all?"
The world narrowed.
Riven ducked a second blow, felt claws tear through his shoulder, and slammed his forehead forward with every ounce of strength he had. Bone crunched. The Claw Wolf staggered.
For a heartbeat, silence fell.
Then the enforcers moved.
Three Claw Wolves closed in at once.
Riven ran.
He didn't sprint blindly. Instinct guided him through narrow alleys, collapsing tunnels, low ceilings where full transformations were impossible. The wolves pursued, howls echoing through the stone.
One caught him.
Claws sank into his back, dragging him down. Riven twisted violently, slashing with both hands. Blood sprayed. The wolf recoiled, snarling.
The fight was ugly. Desperate. Riven was weaker, slower, less trained but he learned fast. Every mistake hurt. Every correction stuck.
When it ended, he was on his knees, gasping, blood dripping from his fingers.
The Claw Wolves had retreated.
Not because he won.
Because he wasn't worth the effort.
"That's the Trial," a voice said.
Riven looked up sharply.
An older wolf stood nearby, leaning against the tunnel wall. His posture was relaxed, but his presence was heavy Dire Wolf pressure, restrained but unmistakable.
"Low Wolves don't get protection," the wolf continued. "If you can't survive being hunted by your own rank, you die. If you can… you earn the right to keep breathing."
Riven pushed himself upright. "Then what was that?"
The Dire Wolf's eyes glinted. "Your first lesson."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You don't fight stronger wolves head-on. You outlast them. You adapt. That's how the bottom climbs."
Riven studied him carefully. "Why help me?"
The wolf shrugged. "Because you're strange. And because the Orders are already whispering your name."
That sent a chill through Riven's spine.
"Third Order scouts were seen near the outer tunnels," the Dire Wolf added casually. "If they're watching you this early, it means something's wrong."
Something important.
Riven clenched his fists.
That night, alone again, he practiced.
He learned how long he could hold partial transformation before his core burned. Learned how to dull his scent. Learned how to fight without killing because killing drew attention, and attention meant death.
But still… the hunger returned.
Near dawn, it overwhelmed him.
He found a wounded rogue wolf hiding in a collapsed shaft. The scent of blood filled his head, drowning thought. His claws trembled.
No, he told himself.
The wolf looked up, eyes wide with terror. "Please"
Riven turned away.
The hunger screamed.
Something inside him cracked just slightly and then stabilized again. Pain tore through his chest, but it passed, leaving behind something new.
Control.
Not mastery. Not peace.
But a fragile balance.
When he finally collapsed, exhausted, the Lunar Core in his chest pulsed steadily, stronger than before.
Low Wolf Ascended was still far away.
But Riven Thorn had survived the Trial.
And in the shadows far above, unseen eyes took note.