Chapter 1: The Morning of the Wolf
The morning sun painted Littleroot in gold. Smoke curled from chimneys, merchants shouted their prices, and children dashed between carts and shopfronts, laughing like nothing bad had ever touched the world.
Fen loved mornings like this.
He walked beside his mother through the town square, a small bundle of chopped firewood slung over his shoulder, the old iron axe at his hip swinging with each step. She smiled at him, her kind eyes gleaming as they chatted.
"You know what day it is, don't you?" she asked with a knowing grin.
Fen squinted at her. "...Market day?"
She laughed. "No, you knucklehead. It's your birthday. You're fifteen now."
Fen blinked, then smiled wide. "Oh. Right! That's today."
His mother gave him a gentle slap on the back. "No heading into the woods today, alright? Take the day off. Rest. Maybe help around town. Just—stay close."
Fen hesitated. "But the woods are peaceful in the morning, and I've got firewood orders to fill. I'll be quick, promise."
She sighed, then gave him a look. "You're just like your father. Stubborn as stone."
Fen grinned and hugged her. "I'll be back before lunch. I promise."
As he made his way toward the town gate, something caught his eye.
A small tent tucked in a corner of the square—tattered and half-hidden behind a row of barrels. In front sat a figure cloaked in patchwork robes, face covered in shadows. A sign hung crookedly above her: "FATESPEAKER - 1 Copper".
As Fen passed, the figure stirred and croaked, "Ahhh… I see you, boy. This is your lucky day. So very… special."
He stopped mid-step, blinking.
"Wait, what?" Fen turned toward her, curious. "How do you know it's my birthday?"
The figure shifted slightly. Though her voice trembled like an old woman's, something in it sounded off—too high, too smooth, like a young girl trying to imitate age. "The stars told me, the wind whispered it. A great change comes. You stand on the edge of fate."
Fen laughed. "That sounds cool. A little creepy, but cool."
"But also… an unlucky day," the fortune teller added, her voice dipping low.
Fen's smile faded slightly, but he shrugged it off. "Yeah, nah. I don't believe in fortunes. But thanks anyway. Have a good day, old lady."
He turned and continued on, shaking his head with a grin.
Back on the main road, the town was alive with activity. Fen waved to a butcher, then shouted toward a carpenter's stall. "Your firewood'll be done by sundown, just like last week!"
"Good lad!" the man called back.
Another woman tossed him a copper coin. "Don't forget mine either, Fen. I'm still freezing at night!"
"You got it!"
As he moved through the crowd, joking and trading nods with the townsfolk, the breeze shifted—cold and strange for a spring morning.
Behind him, the cloaked fortune teller turned her face slightly from under the hood.
And smiled.
The dirt path curled beyond Littleroot like a ribbon through green hills. Fen walked with purpose, the town fading behind him as the smell of smoke gave way to the clean scent of pine and earth.
Birds chirped overhead. Sunlight streamed through the treetops in speckled beams.
This was his sanctuary.
The deeper he walked, the more the air changed—cooler, quieter. He passed old stones half-swallowed by moss and trees that rose like ancient guardians, their bark thick as castle walls.
At a clearing, he finally stopped.
A great tree towered in the center of the grove—its trunk split, gnarled, ancient. This one always stood out. His mother once told him it had roots that stretched down into the bones of the world, brushing against the base of the World Tree itself.
He tightened his grip on his axe.
Three swings. That was his record.
He eyed the thick oak before him, shoulders rolling, feet digging into the soil. One deep breath. Another.
WHAM.
The first strike split bark.
WHAM.
The second sank deeper, shattering wood.
CRACK—
The third—
Brought the tree down.
It groaned as it fell, crashing to the forest floor in a thunder of branches and leaves.
Fen stood there, panting softly, a proud smirk tugging at his lips. "Still got it."
He sat on the stump, the axe resting across his knees, and looked up at the sky through the broken canopy.
The clouds drifted peacefully. Light wind whistled through the leaves.
He closed his eyes.
Just a moment to enjoy it.
Just a moment to breathe—
Pain.
Sudden.
Crippling.
Like a spear of fire driven into his skull.
Fen cried out, falling to his knees. Both hands clutched at his head as if trying to hold it together. His breath caught—sharp, ragged.
Visions flashed behind his eyes.
Fire. Chains. A massive wolf snarling at the gods.
A spear made of light. A scream of thunder.
A blade piercing the chest of a man crowned in gold.
His own voice—crying out in a tongue he didn't know.
The sky above darkened.
The clouds twisted violently, and in the distance, thunder boomed—not just once, but again and again, like drums of war.
The pain ebbed slowly—but the world had already changed.
The wind howled now.
And from the direction of town—
Screams.
Fen's head snapped up. His eyes widened.
Smoke. Black and rising fast.
He ran.
Branches whipped at his face. Roots tried to trip him. His lungs burned as the terrain blurred beneath his feet.
When Littleroot came into view, his breath hitched.
It was chaos.
Fires bloomed across rooftops. Houses lay in rubble. People screamed and scattered. Children cried. The sky glowed red with destruction.
And in the streets—
Ten-foot-tall warriors in radiant armor. Women with wings of steel and eyes like burning stars.
Valkyries.
One of them stood before the smoldering remains of his home.
Fen froze, heart in his throat.
"No…" he whispered.
He gripped his axe tighter.
He ran forward—toward the burning ruins. Toward the winged figure.
"MOM!"