The darkness does not feel like death.
Death should be cold. Silent. Empty.
But this… this darkness breathes.
Lyon drifts weightlessly, suspended between a heartbeat that has already stopped and another that refuses to begin. He can't move his limbs. He can't feel the rain anymore. The pain from the beating—his father's disgust, his cousin's boots, the humiliation—none of it is here.
This place is deeper.
Older.
Something ancient stirs behind the darkness, like a creature shifting through tall grass, patient and massive.
A low rumble vibrates through the void.
Not yet, boy.
Lyon's eyes snap open—except they don't. His body stays still, but his awareness ignites.
"Who… who said that?"
The rumble answers, not quite a growl, not quite a voice.
You call for strength. You begged for one more chance. So I came.
The darkness tears like cloth, opening into a landscape of swirling smoke and silver light. The ground beneath him is not ground at all, but a rolling fog, warm like breath. Shadows twist into trees, into mountains, into shapes that almost resemble the world he knows. But everything is blurred, unreal, dreamlike.
Then the silhouette appears.
Massive.
Four-legged.
Towering as high as a house.
A wolf, but impossibly large—its fur made of night, its eyes molten gold. Every breath it releases sends ripples through the air. The pressure of its presence forces Lyon to his knees without touching him.
Lyon's throat tightens. "Am I… dead?"
The giant wolf steps closer. The air trembles.
You died.
Lyon's heart cracks.
He died.
He really died. Under the fists and boots of his own bloodline.
"But… if I'm dead, then why am I still here?"
The wolf lowers its head until its burning eyes match his.
Because death is not your ending, Lyon Kade. It is your beginning.
The words hit him with the force of a hammer.
"My… beginning?"
The wolf circles him, each step shaking the fog beneath them.
Your bloodline has forgotten its oldest truth. You are not weak. You are not broken. You are not the shame they called you.
Lyon's breath stutters. "Then what am I?"
Mine.
The wolf's voice shakes the realm.
You carry the dormant shard of Fen'Rath—the First Howl, the wolf who led the dawn of shifters. Your ancestors bound me in your bloodline, generation after generation, until greed and pride buried the truth.
Fen'Rath.
The name burns with power.
"But why me? Why choose me—the weakest? The disappointment?" Lyon asks, voice cracking.
The godwolf stops in front of him.
Because only the broken can be reforged. Only the rejected can house my fire without being consumed.
The fog shifts, replaying scenes of Lyon's life—being mocked, beaten, ignored, starved of affection. His father's glare. Zale's smirk. Servants whispering behind doors.
All the moments that made him the "weakest heir."
The wolf lifts its head, voice resonant:
Pain did not destroy you. It tempered you. Every humiliation hardened your spirit. Every strike shaped your resolve. So when your soul cried out for one more chance… I heard you.
The godwolf steps closer until its breath brushes Lyon's face like a warm wind.
You asked for strength. You begged for rebirth. And I answer.
Lyon's voice trembles. "Are… are you giving me power?"
Not giving. Awakening.
What was always yours now rises.
Lyon's chest warms, faint at first, then burning—yet not painful. More like a sun igniting under his ribs.
"But if you awaken my power… what happens to me? To my body?"
The wolf's gold eyes narrow, flames flickering inside them.
You return.
Lyon's breath catches.
Return? To life?
To your pack. To your enemies. To those who killed you.
The godwolf lowers itself, paws the size of boulders sinking into the fog.
You will rise reborn—with my mark, my flame, and the right to claim the legacy stolen from you.
The fog gathers around Lyon's chest, forming a glowing shard of golden fire.
"But… why? What do you want from me?"
Fen'Rath pauses.
I want what you want.
The wolf shows its fangs—not in threat, but in promise.
Retribution.
A chill runs through Lyon.
And reclamation.
The fog trembles, displaying an image of his cousin Zale laughing with the elders. His father turning away from his corpse. The storm continuing as if nothing mattered.
Lyon's fists clench.
He remembers Zale's foot pressing on his spine.
His father's voice calling him a curse.
The helplessness.
The shame.
The rage.
Something inside him snaps free.
"I'm going back," Lyon says, voice steady.
Fen'Rath nods once.
You will rise. But the power I offer is not without a price.
Lyon straightens. "What price?"
The godwolf's eyes darken, no longer gold but ancient amber.
You must bear the mark of the Reborn Alpha.
Golden flames spiral around Lyon, marking across his chest in a pattern like fangs spreading outward.
You will be hunted. Feared. Envied. Challenged.
The flames intensify.
Every step to power will demand blood, discipline, and sacrifice.
Lyon does not flinch. "I'm ready."
Fen'Rath studies him for a long moment.
Then—
The godwolf bows its head.
A being older than kingdoms… bowing to him.
Then rise, Lyon Kade. My chosen. My vessel. My heir.
A pulse of energy slams into Lyon's chest, nearly knocking him backward. His heart feels like it explodes—then reforms, stronger than before. His senses sharpen. His bones vibrate. His veins burn with golden light.
Fen'Rath's voice echoes:
Wake. And take back what was stolen.
The fog collapses, turning into a vortex of gold and shadow. Lyon feels himself falling upward—toward the world, toward breath, toward life.
The last thing he hears is the godwolf's low whisper:
Let the world tremble at your return.
—
Lyon gasps.
Air rushes into his lungs like a tidal wave.
His body arches, coughing, choking, clawing for breath. Rain hits his face. Cold mud coats his back. The metallic scent of blood lingers in the air.
He's alive.
He's alive.
His fingers twitch. His heartbeat, once faint and irregular, now thunders like a drum.
He sits up slowly.
His wounds… are gone.
His ribs move without pain. His skin—previously torn and bruised—is whole. Even the gash above his eyebrow has sealed, leaving only a faint, glowing mark.
His vision sharpens, seeing further through the night than any human should. Sounds stretch far: dripping rain on leaves, distant footsteps, whispers in the trees.
Power hums under his skin, hot and alive.
The godwolf's flame.
Lyon's breath fogs in the cold air, though his body feels warm—too warm.
"What… what am I now?"
A whisper answers from inside him—not a growl, not a voice, but a presence.
More.
Lyon's eyes burn gold for an instant.
The sound of footsteps snaps his head up.
Three pack guards approach, speaking in hushed voices.
"…boy should be dead."
"Alpha ordered the body to be taken at dawn."
"Even scavengers avoided him. Must've been cursed."
Lyon stands.
Their torches illuminate him.
Their faces drain of color.
"That's… impossible…" one stammers.
Lyon's stare is calm. Too calm.
The godwolf's flame coils in his chest.
He feels no rage.
No fear.
Just purpose.
"I'm going home," Lyon says, stepping forward.
The guards instinctively back away.
Not from Lyon.
From what now stands behind him—its immense shadow cast by the torchlight, though no such creature physically exists.
A wolf. Large. Godlike.
Golden eyes burning.
The same shape from the spirit realm.
The guards drop to their knees.
"Wh-what are you…?"
Lyon looks them in the eye.
"I'm the heir you tried to bury."
His voice is steady.
"And I have risen."