Emma's eyes, now blazing with the glacial light of ancient authority, swept across the sea of wolves below her. They were no longer just warriors or clans of fragmented bloodlines—they were her kin, her people, her origin and her destiny intertwined. The swirling storm behind her made her appear even more colossal and divine, her immense lupine form descending the mountain with silent power, each step igniting the snow beneath in radiant silver-blue pulses.
Below, the tens of thousands of wolves remained bowed or knelt, a tapestry of fur and reverence stretching to the distant edges of the frost-veiled forest. The morning light shimmered across their backs like starlight caught in motion. Even the most rebellious hearts among them felt no pride, no defiance. Only awe. Only belonging.
Emma—Fenrir—descended slowly, with the quiet grace of inevitability. Her massive paws touched the base of the mountain, the earth itself trembling beneath her, not in fear, but in recognition.
