The northern skies howled with winds as Theodore and his warriors rode forward, the shadow of mountains stretching long over the battlefield. The air itself trembled, heavy with the stench of monsters. At the gates of the North, two colossal guards emerged—giants of stone and divinity, their voices booming like thunder yet their eyes bowing in reverence.
They lowered their massive forms before Alpha Theodore, their heads dipped in a rare show of respect.
"Great Alpha," one rumbled, his voice shaking the earth, "do not cross beyond this point. The monsters are at their peak. Even gods cannot tame their fury."
But Theodore's golden eyes blazed, his resolve unbroken. He placed a hand on his horse's mane, steadying the trembling beast. His words cut through the wind like steel.
"If the path ahead is death, then let death witness my strength."
Without another word, he strode past them.
From the shadows, a beast lunged—a monster as tall as Theodore's thighs, jaws snapping, claws tearing the ground. The horse shivered, its hooves restless with fear. But Theodore did not falter. His form rippled, bones cracking, fur spilling across his skin until the Alpha stood not as man but as beast.
A towering wolf of midnight black erupted before the army, eyes gleaming molten gold. His claws—sharp as forged blades—slashed once, and the monster's roar was silenced forever. Yet in the struggle, one of the creature's claws grazed Theodore's hand, slicing a deep cut. Blood oozed, dripping down his arm, yet he did not flinch.
Behind him, Dorian tore through another horde, his blade drenched in darkness. The field became chaos, yet soon it was only silence, the monsters slain at the feet of the Alpha's pack.
The northern winds cut like knives, whipping across the battlefield as Theodore and his friends trudged forward. The ground was torn, littered with the remnants of fallen monsters. At the edge of the northern lands, the guards—tall, silent, and unyielding—stood in rigid formation, their eyes scanning every soldier with scrutiny.
Theodore dismounted, his hand dripping blood from a deep gash, crimson seeping through his fur-lined gloves. Oliver rushed forward, concern etched on his face.
"We need food! Something real, a proper meal—our strength won't hold otherwise!"
The guards simply nodded, moving to serve what they had prepared. One by one, bowls of plain, bitter soup were placed before the warriors—no meat, no bread, nothing warm to comfort the battle-worn soldiers.
A chorus of shock rose from the group.
"What… what is this?" Leo demanded, staring at his bowl, incredulous.
"Where's the meat? The bread? Why only this… broth?" Lucas added, voice tight with disbelief.
A single guard, calm and unyielding, spoke:
"This is the North. There are no luxuries here. Every soldier who steps into these lands is told beforehand—they will face hunger, hardship, and peril. Nothing more is promised."
The words hit like a hammer, leaving silence among the warriors. Dorian's eyes fell on Theodore's bleeding hand. The wound was deep, and the blood shimmered in the fading light.
"Theodore… you should let us help. Take aid!" he urged.
But Theodore's golden eyes blazed with defiance. He lifted his hand, letting the crimson drip onto the frozen ground, unbothered. His voice rang out, carrying across the northern plains, loud, commanding, and impossible to ignore:
"I do not falter for a wound! A warrior bleeds, yet a warrior stands! I will prove my strength—above every beast, above every challenge… and above that lowly human, Isabella!"
The words reverberated through the silent field, vibrating in the hearts of his friends. One by one, they bowed their heads, swallowing the plain soup in reverent silence, each bite a reminder of the harsh trials they faced and the Alpha who would never bow.
Even the bitter chill of the North seemed to bow to him. The wind whispered across the plains, carrying the echo of his pride and the fire of his determination. Here, in the frozen wilderness, Theodore's legend was born anew.