*THE WOLF AND THE WORDS*
Rafael Yosuke Raijinko-Redmane was ten years old when the world broke.
It was supposed to be a simple morning on the lake—the kind his grandfather loved most. Thin mist drifted over the water like the breath of sleeping spirits, and the mountains stood silent around them, guardians of stone. The old man was humming a Shinto prayer under his breath, steady and patient, as he cast his fishing line with the smooth, unhurried grace that came with a lifetime of discipline.
Rafael sat on the edge of the wooden dock with his feet hanging over the side, his locs tied back with a thin strip of red cloth. His cheeks were warm with sunlight. His heart felt light in a way that happened only here, only when it was the two of them. Seijuro Raijinko had that effect—softening the world, sharpening the boy.
"You're stiff again," Seijuro murmured without looking at him. "You're thinking too much."
Rafael wrinkled his nose. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
"I'm not thinking too much. I'm thinking just enough."
Seijuro chuckled. "Ah. Of course. Forgive me. My grandson, the prodigy, knows everything."
Rafael leaned back on his hands. "Not everything. Yet."
"Yet," Seijuro echoed fondly. "That word will take you farther than genius ever could."
The lake rippled with a breeze, and Rafael's eyes softened. The old man's voice had grown rougher over the years, like wind worn against mountain stone, but it held a warmth that had shaped Rafael's entire childhood. His mother was stern, his father was disciplined, but his grandfather had been… gentle. Steady. A reminder that strength did not always roar.
Rafael opened his mouth to respond—
and stilled.
A sound broke the morning quiet. Soft. Wrong.
Footsteps.
Too many.
He slid off the dock, his instincts prickling like needles under his skin. He had inherited the Raijinko senses early—the pressure in the air, the currents of intent, the vibrations of hostility. Something cold and sharp approached.
Seijuro sensed it too. His hand went to the old tanto at his belt.
"Stay behind me," he murmured.
The forest whispered—and a man stepped out from the trees.
A familiar man.
A clan member.
A low-ranking Kazoku officer who had once ruffled Rafael's hair and told him he'd grow into a fine warrior someday. A man who had attended family dinners. A man who bowed to Seijuro with respect.
A man who now stepped forward with murder in his eyes.
"Seijuro Raijinko," he said, his voice trembling with something ugly. "Your reign ends today."
Rafael felt his stomach twist. "Grandfather—"
"Quiet."
Seijuro did not raise his voice. He simply shifted his stance, placing his body between Rafael and the traitor. He held the tanto with a quiet dignity that made the intruder's rage look childish in comparison.
"You were like a son to me," Seijuro said softly. "Why?"
The traitor's face contorted. "Because I should have been heir. Not your brat. Not some half-foreign child with yellow eyes and divine blessings. Not him."
His gaze flicked to Rafael, full of venom.
Something old and ancient inside Rafael stirred.
Seijuro exhaled a single breath. "If you wished to challenge me, you should have done so with honor."
"There is no honor in losing everything," the man spat. "I deserve our legacy. Our clan. Our power. And if killing you is the only way—"
He moved.
Fast. Too fast for a normal man. Too fast for any ten-year-old to process.
But Rafael saw the blade plunge.
He saw his grandfather twist to intercept it.
He saw steel flash in the morning light.
He heard a gasp—
his own or the old man's, he didn't know.
Then Seijuro collapsed.
The world slowed.
The traitor tore his blade free, chest heaving, eyes wild. Blood dripped down the tanto. Seijuro's blood.
Rafael stared. His breath strangled in his throat. His vision blurred, not with tears—he was too shocked to cry.
Seijuro looked up at him, eyes soft, as if soothing a crying infant rather than a boy frozen in terror.
"Rafael," he whispered. "Listen to me."
Rafael shook his head violently. "No—Grandfather, no—"
"Strength… is not domination," Seijuro breathed. "It is… protection."
His hand reached for Rafael's. Held it, even as blood pooled beneath him.
"You will be great," he whispered. "Greater than all of us. But listen carefully, boy. Control your rage. Control your storm." His fingers trembled, squeezing once. "Or it will devour you."
"Grandfather—!"
Seijuro's breath left him in a soft exhale, like a prayer escaping to the heavens.
And the world broke.
The traitor stepped forward, raising his blade toward Rafael. Rage twisted his face.
"Your bloodline ends here."
Something inside Rafael fractured.
Something inside him erupted.
The lake shuddered.
The trees trembled.
The sky blackened as if gouged open.
Lightning tore downward, not from above—but from within Rafael himself.
A howl, ancient and cosmic, exploded across the clearing, shaking the earth. The air split. Wind spun into violent spirals. A golden storm surged upward like a beast ripping free of its cage.
Rafael didn't scream.
He didn't speak.
He didn't breathe.
He simply became.
Apex Zinogre awakened.
Golden lightning burst from his skin, wrapping around him like chains shattered by fury. His eyes glowed like burning suns. His magic poured out in torrents, dense and divine, shaking the water into towering spires of steam.
The traitor stumbled back, sheer terror breaking his rage.
"What—what are you—?!"
Rafael's voice was not human.
Not entirely.
"Run."
The man ran.
He didn't make it twenty steps before lightning struck the earth beside him, scorching the soil. Rafael didn't pursue. He didn't need to. The man would carry this fear for the rest of his pitiful life.
Rafael fell to his knees beside Seijuro's body, chest heaving. His magic crackled around him, refusing to settle.
His grandfather's hand lay open.
Rafael gently, trembling, took it in both of his.
"I'll control it," he whispered. "I promise. I'll control all of it."
The sky answered with a distant rumble, like the sigh of a wolf settling beside its cub.
Far above, somewhere unseen, the gods watched.
And something vast sealed itself inside him.
---
A year later, Rafael sat beneath a quiet tree in France, far from the lake where his childhood ended. His parents—on rare military leave—were exploring a nearby museum. They had offered to take him, but he declined. Museums felt too still. Too silent.
Too much like the moment after a life disappears.
So he wandered, hands in his pockets, trying to pretend the world didn't feel smaller without Seijuro's laugh.
He almost walked past her.
A girl—bright brown curls, pale skin, wide eyes—sat alone on a stone bench with a book so enormous it looked like it could crush her. Her legs swung absent-mindedly as she read, completely absorbed.
There was something peaceful about her. Something genuine. Something that didn't stare at Rafael like he was strange or dangerous.
He hesitated.
Then approached.
"Is that seat taken?" he asked.
She jumped. Literally jumped. The book nearly slipped from her hands. She looked up at him, startled and pink in the cheeks.
"Oh! Um—no! It's not taken. You can—you can sit."
He sat. A respectful distance. She peeked at him, curious, shy.
He nodded at the book. "Any good?"
"It's brilliant," she said immediately, brightening. "It's about ancient civilizations and how languages evolve. I'm Hermione."
"Rafael."
"Rafael?" She smiled, liking the sound. "It's a strong name."
"And Hermione is elegant," he replied easily.
She turned red to her roots.
They talked. About books. About science. About strange theories she had no one else to ramble to. Rafael listened, really listened, his golden eyes warm with interest. Every time he teased her—even gently—she flustered adorably, and he found himself smiling for the first time in months.
And when he stood to leave, she looked unexpectedly crestfallen.
He paused.
"Can I write to you?" he asked.
Her heart nearly burst. "Yes! Absolutely! I—I mean… if you'd like."
Rafael's lips curled. "I would."
He took her hand. She squeaked. He slipped a small slip of paper into her palm with his mailing address—mundane, innocent, safe.
She held it like it was a treasure.
"Goodbye, Hermione."
"Goodbye, Rafael."
He didn't see the way she hugged the slip of paper to her chest as he walked away.
---
The letters began slowly.
Hermione's handwriting was neat, careful, full of excitement. She told him about school, books, theories, her frustrations with classmates who didn't like to read. Rafael replied with patience, humor, and warmth he didn't show to anyone else.
Then the letters changed.
Hermione wrote one day:
"Sometimes I wish I were more… special. But I'm not. I'm ordinary."
Rafael stared at the letter for a long time.
Then wrote back:
"Hermione.
You're not ordinary.
You're magical."
Her reply was immediate.
"I'm not—well I mean thank you, that's sweet, but I'm not—"
He laughed softly as he wrote back:
"Not metaphorical, Hermione. Literal."
He explained magic. Explained the signs she'd missed. Explained the truth of the world she'd never been allowed to see.
For once, Hermione Granger was speechless.
Then ecstatic.
Then terrified.
Then thrilled again.
Their letters only grew longer from there.
Two years passed.
Hermione waited eagerly each week for his handwriting. Rafael kept every letter she sent in a reinforced box beneath his bed at Mahoutokarou.
They were worlds apart.
Yet somehow… closer than most people who stood side by side.
---
When Rafael turned thirteen, he stood at the foot of an ancient mountain wrapped in divine mist. Stone guardians towered above him: wolves, dragons, spirits carved into pillars older than history.
Mahoutokarou.
The fourth great magical school.
A storm gathered overhead, not in threat, but in welcome. The torii gates glowed. The air hummed as if whispering his name.
He stepped forward—
and the world recognized him.
Lightning curled at his feet.
The gates opened of their own accord.
Ancient spirits bowed their heads.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, a wolf of golden thunder howled in answer.
Rafael inhaled.
And walked into his destiny.
---