The Argent Wolf (Coming to Galatea)

Aurora POV

The air in the Forbidden Lands doesn’t just smell like jungle and damp earth; it smells like opportunity and a hint of ozone.

Most people, the ones with soft beds and functional heart rates, call this place a graveyard. They aren’t entirely wrong. The White Wolf Kingdom died here eight years ago. But where they see a tomb, I see a playground. A very, very oversized playground.

The jagged spire of the shattered Sun Dial tower loomed a few miles away, spearing through the canopy like the broken fang of some ancient god. Its once-pristine white marble was strangled by creeping night-vines that pulsed faintly with violet light. That used to be the center of our capital. Festivals, markets, ceremonies, before everything burned.

Now it was basically a glorified scratching post for wyverns.

I adjusted my weight, my paws sinking silently into the ground. I don’t look like much right now. Between the layers of ash I’ve meticulously rubbed into my fur and the way I keep my tail low, I look like a scruffy, pathetic rogue wolf who’s missed a few meals.

That’s the first mistake my opponents usually make.

Below me, in the ravine, a Shadow-Stag was grazing on some bioluminescent moss. It was the size of a small cottage, its antlers dripping with a liquid shadow that sizzled when it touched the ground. Wild magic does strange things to the local wildlife.

‘Eight years,’ I thought, my mismatched eyes, one azure, one mercury, tracking the pulse beneath the creature’s throat. Eight years since the Draconians brought their fire and the Vampires brought their greed. Eight years since the world watched my people burn and collectively decided neutrality sounded safer than courage.

A nearby branch creaked softly under the weight of something unseen. Probably a Carrion Crawler. Probably hoping I’d leave scraps.

Optimistic little scavenger.

I should be feral by now. That’s what the scholars say, anyway. The “Science of the Shift.” Stay in wolf form longer than three to four months and your human mind is supposedly stripped away until all that remains is instinct, hunger, and territorial aggression.

Honestly, rude.

I have been in my wolf form for eight years. I’m still here. Still me. I just happen to prefer four legs, sharper teeth, and a sense of smell that can detect prey from a mile away.

The stag shifted uneasily. It might have sensed me. Or maybe it sensed the ripple in the wind currently coiling around my paws like invisible silk. These guys are sensitive to shifts imagic after all.

I leaned into Nature’s Veil, letting the magic settle over me like cool water. My scent vanished. My presence blurred. To the stag, I was no longer a predator.

I was simply another shadow in a land full of monsters.

The political state of the Shattered Circle is still a complete joke. The Empire of Nocturne struts around pretending they’re refined because they occasionally drink blood from crystal goblets instead of directly from living beings. The Draconis Dominion are basically heavily armed lizards with anger issues and an unhealthy obsession with conquest. Then there’s Valdora, our “honorable” werewolf cousins, who absolutely intended to help us right up until helping became inconvenient.

The Sylvari Fey hid behind their illusions.

Humans hid behind their tech.

And my kingdom vanished into ash.

But I don’t really hate them anymore. Hate is heavy, and heavy gets you killed out here. Besides, revenge is a luxury reserved for people who still have armies behind them. I’m just one wolf. One she-wolf against two empires full of overgrown mosquitoes and fire-breathing lizards. I may be reckless, but I’m not stupid enough to mistake survival for invincibility. So I let it go. Not because they deserved forgiveness, but because carrying that anger would only bury me beside everyone else I lost. I survived when so many didn’t, and I intend to keep surviving for their sake. Living on, stubbornly and unapologetically, is the only way I know how to honour their deaths.

The stag lowered its head. ‘Now.’

I didn’t just jump; I let the wind catch me. With a flick of mental intent, a gust of Argent Magic coiled around my haunches, launching me thirty feet across the clearing in a blur of grey-brown ash.

I’m sleek, I’m fast, and I’m the last thing this overgrown venison is ever going to see.

The Shadow-Stag let out a sound like grinding tectonic plates as I breached its personal bubble. It tried to pivot, its massive antlers, wide enough to span a city street, swinging toward me in a lethal, sweeping arc.

I didn’t flinch. Honestly? I grinned. Or as much as a wolf can grin.

‘Too slow, big guy.’

Mid-air, I gave the wind a mental shove. The air beneath my paws firmed up for a fraction of a second, a literal stepping stone of Gale-force pressure. I hopped off the invisible platform, vaulting clean over the stag’s rack. I saw the shadow-ichor dripping from its points just inches below my belly.

I landed on its broad, mossy back with the grace of a falling leaf and the impact of a dropped anvil.

Most wolves would have tried to sink their teeth into the spine immediately. Amateur move. Creatures this size don’t die quickly unless you know exactly where to hurt them. Instead, I let my paws glow with a faint, silvery hum. A concentrated burst of kinetic magic slammed into the stag’s left shoulder joint.

Pop.

The stag’s left shoulder joint buckled under the magical concussive force. It roared, a sound that would have sent a Valdoran scout scrambling for the trees, and reared up.

‘Oh, we’re dancing now?’ I chirped internally, sliding down its flank as it tilted.

I hit the ground, my claws digging into the moss underneath my paws. The stag lashed out with a hoof. I dodged, no way I am taking that head on. The hoof smashed into a tree behind me, shattering ancient wood into splinters.

The air around me crackled with displaced energy. My internal mana reserves thrummed, a steady, cooling river contrasting the hot surge of adrenaline. This dance of life and death wasn’t just physical; it was a delicate equation of manipulating the very ambient magic that had warped this land.

My wolf was howling with delight. This is what the scholars don’t get. They think being a wolf all the time can turn into a curse, a loss of “humanity.” They don’t understand the sheer, electric pulse of the hunt. The way the world slows down until it’s just heartbeats and breath.

I darted under its belly, my sleek frame making me a nightmare to track. I wasn’t just a predator; I was a surgeon. I nipped at a tendon here, sliced a magical focal point there.

The stag tried to summon its shadow-magic, the air around us darkening as it prepared to vent a cloud of soul-chilling mist.

‘Not today, Rudolph,’ I muttered. Well, technically I can’t, I am a wolf. Running around on all fours.

I lunged, not for the throat, not yet. I pulled on the ambient mana of the Forbidden Lands, the wild, jagged stuff that most people are terrified of. To me, it’s just fuel. I wove a quick Elemental snap, turning the moisture in the stag’s own breath into jagged ice shards before they could leave its throat.

The beast choked, its shadow-mist backfiring in its lungs. It stumbled.

That was the opening.

I leapt, my body a grey streak of ash and muscle. I didn’t need brute strength when I had momentum and a perfect understanding of anatomy. My jaws locked onto the soft spot just behind the skull, where the spine meets the brain.

One sharp, magically-enhanced snap.

The Shadow-Stag went down with a muffled thud that shook the needles off the nearby pines.

I stood atop the carcass for a moment, the silence of the Forbidden Lands rushing back in to fill the void. I puffed out a breath, a silver-blue mist curling from my snout. My coat was a mess, my heart was hammering a joyful rhythm against my ribs, and I had enough meat to last at least a week if scavengers didn’t get clever or too overconfident.

Honestly? Good day.

I began the tedious process of licking the blood off my paws, cleanliness is a survival trait, after all.

Then the wind shifted and the scent hit me like a physical blow.

It wasn’t the rot of a monster or the metallic tang of a vampire. It was the smell of wolves. But not wild. Not the lonely, desperate scent of a rogue. This was deep, heavy, and smelled like a thunderstorm trapped in an old-growth forest. It was an Alpha scent.

Valdoran. It had to be. Nobody else marched through the Forbidden Lands with that kind of arrogant, synchronized confidence. They weren’t hunting prey; they were on a patrol. Or worse, a mission.

And the Alpha wasn’t alone. There were six... No, seven others. A subpack. Moving fast. Moving this way.

I went completely still, ears twitching toward the southern border. Without hesitation, I gulped down several quick mouthfuls of meat, smeared fresh blood beneath loose dirt to disrupt the scent trail, wrapped myself in Nature’s Veil, and scaled a nearby massive Ironwood tree in seconds.

Below me, the forest shifted uneasily.

‘Well,’ I thought, settling silently among the branches as my mismatched eyes narrowed. ‘So much for a peaceful lunch. The neighbors are already knocking.’