The first to sense it was the dogs.
Not see. Not smell. Just feel.
Every mutt, herding hound, and barn-stray in the little town of Fenmire Hollow stopped barking that morning. One by one, they fell silent—ears back, tails down, whining low, staring toward the distant Vale of Ashbones.
The birds were next. Not in sound, but in absence. No caws, no chirps, no wings flapping overhead. The sky seemed to hold its breath.
Thalen Corveil woke to the quiet and knew something was wrong. He strapped on his chestplate—dented, barely fitted—and stepped outside.
The air felt… heavy.
Not storm-heavy. Not damp or sulfurous. Just expectant.
Something had happened.
Something was awake.
---
Word spread through Fenmire like frost on glass.
Old Ersten's goats had fled their pens. The forest deer weren't where they usually were. Hunters reported weird tracks—deep pawprints, twice the size of any wolf, found near the forest edge. At the local tavern, a drunk claimed the trees had moved. Another swore the sky flashed violet for a heartbeat the night before.
Then the mayor, worn and anxious, called together a scouting patrol.
Thalen volunteered.
Of course he did. He was always volunteering—whether it was helping old farmers carry grain or chasing off bandits with that beat-up sword of his. Idealistic. Brave. Just foolish enough.
He tightened his cloak and set out toward the Vale.
---
They didn't have to go far.
The trees got weird less than a mile in. The birds refused to fly overhead. Moss curled away from rocks. One tree—an elder yew—had split down the middle, not burned, not cut, just opened.
Even Thalen, brave and eager, hesitated.
"What the hell could do this?" asked one of the guards. "Magic?"
Another spat. "Too clean for magic. Too clean for steel."
The deeper they went, the quieter it got.
Then the scream came.
Something leapt from the brush—big, fast, red-eyed. A magical beast: a dire panther, black as ink, its fur lined with faint veins of flame. Hungry. Rabid.
It struck the first guard before anyone could draw.
Thalen moved on instinct. His sword came up—poor angle, bad footing—but he caught the beast's second swipe. Sparks flew. The impact flung him backward into a tree.
Pain. Panic. Shouting.
The beast pounced again—
And the forest… breathed.
No wind. No noise.
Just an invisible pressure, like the weight of an ancient gaze settling across the earth.
The panther froze mid-leap.
And from the mist ahead, something stepped forward.
It didn't walk like a predator. It didn't run, or lunge. It simply entered the clearing, calm, poised.
A wolf. No—more than a wolf.
Tall as a warhorse at the shoulder. Muscled, yet lithe, as if carved by starlight. Its fur shimmered a surreal cerulean blue, streaked with silver veins that pulsed faintly like rivers of light. A mane of soft, misty strands framed its head, ethereal pink and gold, shifting like breath in frost.
But it was the eyes that held them—golden, unblinking, wide and calm. Not blank. Not cruel. Just immense.
Floating beside it was a sword, as long as a man was tall, etched in runes none of them could read. It hummed.
The panther growled.
The wolf said nothing. It didn't growl, didn't flare its teeth.
It just looked at the beast.
The magical panther lowered its body, tail twitching, unsure.
Then the wolf moved—fast. Too fast. Like light skipping across water.
In a blink, it was beside the beast. The sword ignited—not with fire, but with presence—and cut.
One strike.
The panther didn't fall. It simply stopped moving. Its body was whole, but it was… done. As if its will had been removed.
The wolf turned, unhurried. Looked at the humans.
They couldn't move.
Even Thalen, still gripping his blade, couldn't breathe.
Not from fear—something deeper.
The creature wasn't snarling. It didn't threaten. It just was.
A presence from another age. A figure that should not exist.
Its eyes met Thalen's.
And in that moment, Thalen felt something ancient move behind them. Not thought. Not speech.
A presence that said: "You are not ready to raise your blade."
Then, without sound, the wolf turned.
And vanished into the mist.
---
They didn't speak on the way back.
No one dared. Words felt cheap.
But by nightfall, Fenmire Hollow was whispering again.
About a god. A guardian. A ghost.
About a wolf of starlit blue, bearing a blade too heavy for the world.
And in the Vale of Ashbones, deep beneath the trees, Zacian lay beneath an old hollow, licking the blood from his paw—not out of need, but routine.
He hated the taste of that beast. Too hot. Too bitter.
He stretched out on a bed of stone and moss, tail curling.
The air was cold. The earth was still.
He closed his eyes, hoping—foolishly—that he might get just one day of sleep before another idiot came looking for him