Warrior

Late in the year 1491, the Kingdom of the Wolf stood at the height of its glory.

Rike Vargen thrived beneath the rule of King Ragnar Abramsson and Queen Katarina. The forests were full, the coffers heavy with gold and silver, and knowledge flowed through the kingdom like a living thing. Their people did not fear hunger. They did not fear invasion.

They feared nothing.

Castel Wolf towered above the village below, carved from dark stone that seemed to grow from the mountain itself. Crimson banners snapped in the wind from every turret, each bearing the black wolf sigil of the crown. Even from miles away, travelers knew whose land they approached.

Inside, the castle gleamed.

Statues of former kings and queens lined the great halls, their stone eyes forever watching. Torches burned in iron brackets, casting warm light over polished floors. At the end of the longest corridor stood the throne room - vast and proud.

A crimson runner stretched from the doors to two towering golden thrones. Behind them, a stained-glass window blazed in color whenever the sun struck it.

It told the oldest story.

The First King.

The man who had been chosen by the moon, who had transformed into the first pure werewolf. The glass depicted his agony, his rebirth, and the moment he turned his wife and children beneath silver light. Together, they had spread the blessing - some called it a curse - to their people.

It was not savagery.

It was evolution.

And beneath that ancient story sat the current rulers of the Wolf Kingdom.

King Ragnar Abramsson was young, broad-shouldered, and battle-marked. His brown hair brushed his shoulders, and his crooked nose told of wars survived. Pride lived in his eyes - not arrogance, but devotion. Everything he did, he did for the wolves.

His black robe, fastened with gold, draped heavily over his frame.

Beside him sat Queen Katarina.

She was grace beside his strength. Her long golden hair spilled to her waist, her blue eyes clear and perceptive. Where Ragnar burned hot, Katarina steadied him. She wore black and white silks that mirrored his colors - two halves of the same rule.

They were loved.

The heavy doors to the throne room suddenly burst open.

A massive wolf charged across the stone floor, claws scraping, breath heavy from travel. Gasps echoed through the chamber. As the wolf reached the foot of the thrones, fur receded, bones shifted, and a man knelt in its place.

“Sir Hugo,” Ragnar greeted calmly.

The commander of the royal army bowed his head. “Your Majesty. The campaign against Rike Solen is concluded. King Robert has surrendered. He has agreed to your terms. No further bloodshed was necessary.”

A ripple of approval moved through the court.

Ragnar rose from his throne and descended the steps, clasping Hugo’s forearm. “You have served your kingdom well.”

When Hugo departed, Ragnar crossed to a nearby war table. A map lay stretched across it, marked in ink and symbols. He dipped a quill into black ink and drew a firm line through Rike Solen.

Three kingdoms now bent the knee.

Six remained.

Katarina approached him quietly. “You have secured more alliances than any king before you,” she said gently. “Our people are safe.”

“For now,” Ragnar replied, jaw tightening. “Human kingdoms surround us. They whisper lies about us. They claim we slaughter their families.” His hand curled into a fist. “We do not hunt humans. We have no need. Yet they prepare for war as if we are monsters.”

“You seek unity to protect us,” Katarina said softly.

“I seek it so my people are never chained.”

She studied him for a long moment, then placed his hand over her stomach.

“There is something else you must protect.”

Ragnar stilled.

“I am with child.”

For a heartbeat, the warrior king could not speak. Then he laughed - a raw, disbelieving sound - and gathered her into his arms.

The future had just gained a heartbeat.

Nine Months Later

Winter gave way to spring.

And with it came a prince.

Adrian Abramsson was born beneath a full moon, strong-lunged and restless from his first breath. He bore his mother’s eyes - clear blue - and the stubborn set of his father’s mouth.

Even as an infant, the wolf within him stirred.

At times, tiny claws would replace fingers. Soft fur would ripple across his skin before fading again. Servants trailed him constantly; more than once, he had shifted fully into a small silver-gray wolf and bolted down the halls, only to tumble when his body returned to infant form.

He howled before he could properly cry.

The kingdom adored him.

The throne room overflowed on the night of his formal celebration. Music filled the air - violins singing, drums thundering. Laughter echoed beneath painted ceilings.

Adrian, fascinated, reached for a violin’s trembling strings.

“Your Little Highness,” Katarina laughed, lifting him into her arms. “Forgive him.”

“It is an honor,” the violinist replied warmly. “The prince has excellent taste.”

Ragnar soon took the boy into his own arms. Adrian wrapped tiny fingers around his father’s thumb and squeezed with surprising strength.

Ragnar grinned. “He will be formidable.”

The doors exploded open.

Music died instantly.

A soaked wolf stumbled into the hall, mud clinging to his fur. He shifted mid-stride, collapsing to his knees in human form before the throne.

“Your Majesty,” he gasped. “A message… from Rike Lejonet.”

The Kingdom of the Lion.

Silence spread like frost.

Ragnar handed Adrian back to Katarina and tore open the parchment. As his eyes scanned the words, warmth drained from his expression.

The messenger trembled as Ragnar read.

The throne room felt smaller somehow. Tighter.

Predatory.

“King Viggo claims we slaughtered his villagers,” Ragnar said quietly.

Quiet was worse than shouting.

“He accuses us of feeding on his people like animals.”

A low growl rolled through the wolves in attendance.

Katarina rose slowly from her throne, Adrian in her arms. “And what does the Lion threaten?” she asked.

Ragnar’s jaw tightened. “He says if we do not surrender the ‘murderers’ within our kingdom, he will march his armies to our gates.”

A dangerous stillness fell.

Ragnar stepped down from the dais, boots striking stone like war drums.

“They call us beasts,” he murmured. “Yet they fear us enough to lie.”

He turned sharply toward his court.

“We have not hunted them. We have not touched their fragile villages.” His eyes darkened. “But perhaps we have been too merciful.”

The word echoed.

Merciful.

Sir Hugo straightened. “Your command, my King?”

Ragnar looked toward Katarina.

She did not look afraid.

She looked proud.

“Rally them,” Ragnar said softly. “Every wolf who can hold a blade. Every wolf that can bare their teeth.”

His gaze flicked to his son.

Adrian’s tiny fingers curled in his mother’s gown, blue eyes wide and unblinking - watching.

“If the Lion wants a monster,” Ragnar continued, voice lowering into something almost intimate, “I will show him one.”

A slow smile touched his mouth - not joyful.

Hungry.

Howls erupted, louder this time. Sharper. Promises of blood and bone.

Katarina descended the steps and stood beside her husband. He pulled her against him possessively, one hand splayed across her back.

“No one threatens what is mine,” he said, low enough that only she heard.

Her fingers gripped his robe.

“And no one cages a wolf,” she whispered back.

Above them, the stained-glass First King glowed crimson in the torchlight, as though already stained with blood.

The year 1492 would not be remembered for a prince’s birth.

It would be remembered for war.