The silence was not immediate.
It crept in slowly, like frost.
For days after the last shuttle vanished from the sky, Helios-77 continued to make sounds—metal popping as it cooled, distant structural failures echoing through the lower levels, the low moan of wind pulling atmosphere through ruptured corridors.
Fenrik learned those sounds.
He learned which meant collapse, which meant harmless settling, which meant something still alive.
Eventually, even those faded.
What remained was a quiet so deep it pressed inward, not empty but vast, like standing at the edge of something that would not answer back.
Fenrik stood at the mouth of the ruined observation deck, upright, arms loose at his sides, claws half-curled. The black fire that had once roared around him now clung close to his body, a low-burning mantle instead of a storm.
He did not force it.
He had learned that forcing fire only made it restless.
The dead sun hung low on the horizon, swollen and dim, casting a rust-colored light across ash fields and broken structures. No orbiting craft cut the sky anymore. No signals pulsed. No eyes watched.
For the first time since his awareness began—
No one waited for him to fail.
The realization struck him harder than any blow.
His body felt wrong.
Not painful, exactly—though pain was always present now, a constant low pressure—but misaligned. His weight distribution shifted unexpectedly. His balance wavered when he turned too fast. His muscles were stronger than his joints were accustomed to supporting.
When he took a step forward, he overstepped.
His heel struck too hard against the metal, sending a jolt up his spine that made his teeth click together.
He growled softly, more in irritation than anger.
Behind him, the others watched.
They did not crowd him. They did not speak. They did not offer help.
They observed.
Pack behavior, unspoken but instinctive.
Fenrik felt their attention like warmth at his back—not intrusive, not demanding. Just there. Six presences, distinct and growing steadier by the day.
They were not all alike.
One was tall and broad, shoulders still too human, movements stiff as if his bones had not yet fully decided what shape they preferred. Another stayed low, closer to full wolf form, eyes bright and restless, always scanning.
Two favored upright posture but shifted without warning, bones flowing into quadrupedal motion when speed or balance demanded it.
They were learning.
So was he.
Fenrik tried to walk again.
Slower this time.
He placed each foot deliberately, feeling the ground through thickened pads and bone. He adjusted his center of gravity, shoulders rolling back, spine straightening as instinct corrected what thought could not.
It felt like learning to breathe again.
He reached the edge of the deck and stopped.
Below lay Helios-77's surface—jagged terrain scarred by failed terraforming, broken spires of research infrastructure rising like bones from ash. Farther out, mutated growth clung to life where radiation and abandoned magic had warped the land into something neither dead nor thriving.
He inhaled.
The air burned.
Not unpleasantly.
It tasted of metal, dust, and something faintly organic—life clinging stubbornly to places it had not been meant to survive.
Hunger stirred.
A deeper hunger than he had known before.
Not desperation.
Need.
He dropped to all fours without thinking.
The shift was abrupt but smoother than before, bones sliding into place with a sound like distant thunder muffled by flesh. The ground felt more honest this way. His senses sharpened, horizon widening, balance settling naturally into muscle memory that felt older than the lab, older than the fire.
This was easier.
This felt… right.
Fenrik padded forward, claws clicking softly against metal as he descended into the ruins beyond the deck. The pack followed, spacing themselves instinctively, not clumped, not scattered.
Formation without orders.
He did not look back.
He knew they were there.
Outside, the wind cut across the open plain, carrying grit and heat and the faint scent of movement far away. Fenrik stopped abruptly, head snapping up, ears rotating.
Something lived out there.
Small. Fast. Alert.
Prey.
He lowered his body, muscles coiling.
Then he paused.
The old instinct—to rush, to overwhelm—rose and then faltered.
Fenrik waited.
The pack froze with him, breath held, eyes locked on his posture. Seconds stretched. Wind whispered across ash.
The creature emerged from behind a broken structure—a six-limbed scavenger, skin plated and eyes too numerous, sniffing the air nervously.
Fenrik did not move.
He felt the tremor in his muscles, the fire wanting release.
He held it.
The creature stepped closer.
Closer.
Then—
Fenrik lunged.
The chase was brief.
Fenrik's speed surprised even him. His legs ate distance, ground blurring beneath him as he closed in. The creature darted, skittering sideways, but Fenrik adjusted mid-stride, instincts rewriting trajectory without thought.
He struck, jaws snapping shut around the creature's midsection.
There was resistance.
Bone.
Cartilage.
Then surrender.
Fenrik killed cleanly.
He did not burn the body.
He stood over it, chest heaving, heart pounding with exertion and something like pride.
The pack arrived seconds later.
Fenrik stepped aside.
He let them eat first.
They gathered around the kill cautiously at first, eyes flicking to him for permission he had not explicitly given.
Fenrik lowered his head.
A subtle gesture.
They understood.
The pack fed.
Fenrik did not rush. He took his share last, tearing flesh with practiced efficiency, tasting blood that was not human, not tainted by fear or betrayal.
It grounded him.
When they finished, they did not scatter.
They stayed.
One by one, they settled into resting positions, some in wolf form, some upright, bodies close enough to touch without pressing.
Fenrik lay down among them.
The ground was warm from the sun.
The wind eased.
For the first time since Helios-77 had gone dark, the quiet did not feel empty.
It felt earned.
That night, Fenrik left them.
Not far.
Just far enough to be alone.
He shifted fully into wolf form, the transformation smoother now, less painful, bones sliding into place with a sense of inevitability rather than violence.
He ran.
Across ash fields and broken land, over ridges and through shallow ravines where old runoff channels still glowed faintly with residual energy. His breath came hard but steady, lungs expanding, muscles working in harmony.
No walls.
No ceilings.
No restraints.
Just motion.
He ran until his legs burned and the fire inside him settled into something quiet and obedient.
He stopped at the crest of a rise and looked back.
The ruins glowed faintly behind him, pack signatures warm and present.
Fenrik lowered his head and let out a low, steady sound.
Not a howl.
A promise.
Morning on Helios-77 arrived without ceremony.
The dead sun climbed slowly, its light thin and rust-colored, spreading across the plains like an old bruise. Shadows stretched long and uneven over the ruins, catching on broken pylons and half-buried structures that had once promised permanence.
Fenrik woke before the others.
He lay still among them, senses open, listening.
Breath.
Heartbeat.
Subtle shifts of muscle and bone as sleep loosened its grip.
The pack slept differently now. No longer sprawled in exhaustion, but positioned—instinctively defensive, overlapping fields of awareness even in rest. One remained half-awake, ears twitching at every sound. Another slept light, ready to move at the slightest disturbance.
They were learning without being taught.
So was he.
Fenrik rose quietly.
He tested his balance upright, then dropped to all fours, then back again—slow, deliberate transitions meant to teach his body where the edges were. The fire inside him stirred at the change but did not surge. It waited.
Good.
He stepped away from the resting pack and moved into a wide, open space between collapsed structures where the ground was mostly clear. Ash puffed softly under his weight. The air smelled clean here, stripped by wind.
Fenrik inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Black fire flickered along his forearms—thin, controlled threads rather than roaring flame. He held it there, steady, resisting the instinct to let it spread.
His hands shook.
Not from weakness.
From restraint.
When the others woke, they did not approach immediately.
They watched.
Fenrik stood alone in the clearing, eyes closed, fire tracing slow, deliberate paths along his skin without escaping. Each breath pulled it inward. Each exhale shaped it.
One of the pack—lean, quick, still favoring wolf form—stepped forward cautiously. She circled him, head low, nose twitching as she tested the air.
Fenrik opened his eyes.
He met her gaze.
"Watch," he said.
The word was rough, forced through a throat not yet meant for it, but the meaning carried.
He raised one claw and dragged it through the air.
The fire followed—obedient—forming a thin arc that hung suspended for a heartbeat before dissolving back into nothing.
The pack shifted.
Interest replaced fear.
Training began without ceremony.
Fenrik did not explain.
He demonstrated.
He showed them how to move without wasting energy—how to roll shoulders forward when striking, how to let momentum carry weight instead of fighting it. He corrected mistakes with a shove, a low growl, a firm grip—not punishment, but instruction.
When one lunged too early, Fenrik blocked and pushed him to the ground, holding him there just long enough to make the point.
When another held back too long, Fenrik stepped past her and took the opening himself, forcing her to react.
They learned.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Fire was the hardest lesson.
It wanted to answer emotion—to flare with anger, to surge with fear, to roar with triumph. Fenrik had to teach them that fire was not instinct.
It was discipline.
He stood before them, eyes locked on each in turn, and let the fire rise.
It crawled over his shoulders, along his spine, down his arms—thickening, brightening, threatening to explode outward.
The pack tensed.
Fenrik clenched his fists.
The fire stopped.
Held.
Then, with visible effort, he pulled it back inside himself until only faint embers glowed beneath his skin.
"Inside," he said. "Not out."
The words cost him. Sweat—dark and hot—beaded along his temples. His breathing roughened as he fought the flame's hunger.
One by one, the pack tried to imitate him.
Some failed spectacularly.
One lost control entirely, fire bursting outward in a panicked flare that scorched the ground and sent the others scrambling back. Fenrik moved instantly, placing himself between the fire and the pack, absorbing the surge into himself with a grunt of effort.
"No," he growled. "Again."
They tried again.
Days blurred together.
Hunt.
Rest.
Train.
Repeat.
Fenrik learned the land alongside them—where prey traveled, where radiation lingered, where the ground could swallow weight without warning. He learned how long Helios-77's nights truly were, and how cold the wind became when the sun dipped low.
He learned his pack.
The broad one favored strength and directness, slow to adapt but relentless once committed. The lean one learned quickly, always moving, always testing edges. Another struggled with control, fire flaring whenever emotion surged—but she listened, corrected, tried again.
Fenrik did not name them yet.
Names felt… premature.
They were pack.
That was enough.
One evening, as the light faded and the ruins cast long shadows, the pack sparred without him.
Fenrik watched from a broken ledge, arms crossed, fire dormant. They moved awkwardly at first—too aggressive, too hesitant—but gradually found rhythm. One feinted while another circled. A third cut off retreat.
They were thinking together.
Fenrik felt something loosen in his chest.
Pride.
He had not known the word before.
That night, Fenrik practiced speech alone.
He stood at the edge of the ruins, staring out across the plains, shaping words in his mouth.
"Fenrik," he said softly.
The sound still felt strange, but it no longer hurt.
He tried again.
"Pack."
The word carried warmth.
He smiled—just slightly—and let the fire flicker in quiet agreement beneath his skin.
For the first time, Helios-77 did not feel like a grave.
It felt like a beginning.
Night on Helios-77 did not fall.
It settled.
The dead sun slipped beneath the horizon without color or drama, leaving behind a sky that felt unfinished—dark, but not truly black, as if the universe itself had abandoned the effort halfway through. Stars were faint here, distant and uncaring, their light filtered through dust and radiation and the long silence of quarantine.
Cold followed.
Not sharp, not sudden—slow and invasive, creeping through ash and metal alike, sinking into bone. Fenrik felt it immediately, a pressure against skin and fire that demanded response.
The pack drew closer together without being told.
Bodies pressed. Breath mingled. Heat shared.
Fenrik remained standing.
He took the first watch.
The others rested in uneven shapes around the remains of a collapsed structure that still blocked some of the wind. Wolf and werewolf forms mixed freely now—no hesitation, no pain in the shifting, just instinct choosing what fit the moment best.
Fenrik stood at the edge of the shelter, upright, eyes scanning the darkness.
The night was not empty.
It only pretended to be.
Far out on the plains, something moved—large enough to disturb the ash, slow enough to believe itself unseen. Fenrik's ears tracked it automatically, head tilting as he listened past the obvious sounds into the deeper layers of the world.
There.
And there.
Multiple.
Predators.
Not scavengers like the first hunt.
Hunters.
Fenrik's fire stirred.
He raised one hand, fingers curling inward—not a command, but a signal.
The pack woke.
They moved silently now, slipping into position with a discipline that had not existed days ago. Fenrik did not need to explain. He did not need to point.
They felt what he felt.
The predators emerged from the dark in pieces—first eyes, then shapes, then mass. Tall, jointed creatures with too many limbs and hides layered thick enough to resist claws. Their mouths opened sideways, revealing rows of grinding teeth made for tearing armored prey apart slowly.
They had hunted Helios-77's surface long before the station had arrived.
And they had learned that this night smelled different.
One of them roared.
The sound rolled across the plains, heavy and territorial.
The pack answered with silence.
Fenrik dropped to all fours.
The clash was brutal.
The lead predator charged, limbs digging into ash as it surged forward with surprising speed. Fenrik met it head-on, jaws snapping shut around one armored limb while his claws tore into softer flesh beneath.
The creature screamed.
Another struck from the side, slamming into Fenrik's ribs with bone-crushing force. Pain exploded outward, fire flaring instinctively before he dragged it back, refusing to let it blind him.
Discipline.
The pack moved.
One darted in low, hamstringing a predator before leaping clear. Another went high, claws raking across sensory clusters along the creature's neck. A third misjudged distance and was caught mid-air, slammed into the ground hard enough to crack the surface beneath them.
Fenrik felt it instantly.
Pain that was not his.
Fear.
He broke from his opponent and crossed the distance in a blur, striking the predator with enough force to lift it off the ground. Black fire surged briefly—controlled, focused—searing through armor and bone alike.
The creature collapsed.
The remaining predators hesitated.
That hesitation cost them everything.
When the fight ended, the ash was dark with blood—thick, acrid, alien.
Fenrik stood among the fallen, chest heaving, fire low but steady beneath his skin. He turned slowly, counting.
One pack member lay still.
Too still.
Fenrik was beside him in an instant.
The wolf—still favoring quadrupedal form—breathed, but shallow. One leg lay twisted at an angle that spoke of breaks too clean to be superficial.
Fenrik lowered himself beside him.
The pack gathered close, tension tight enough to snap.
Fenrik pressed one hand to the injured wolf's side, fire flaring gently—not to burn, but to warm. He felt the damage clearly now: shattered bone, torn muscle, internal bleeding slowed but not stopped.
He could fix this.
The knowledge came unbidden, instinct whispering that fire could do more than destroy.
But it would cost him.
Fenrik hesitated.
Then he acted.
He poured fire inward, not outward, guiding it carefully through his hands and into the injured body. The process hurt—deeply—as if something vital were being siphoned from him, stretched thin and reshaped against resistance.
The injured wolf convulsed once.
Then stilled.
Bones shifted.
Aligned.
The fire dimmed.
Fenrik pulled his hands away and staggered, catching himself on one knee as exhaustion crashed down on him like a physical blow.
The pack watched in silence.
The injured wolf stirred.
Then stood.
Unsteady—but alive.
Fenrik sat back, breathing hard, vision swimming.
For the first time since Helios-77 went dark, doubt crept in.
Not fear of death.
Fear of failure.
He was learning—but learning meant mistakes, and mistakes meant consequences borne by others now. The weight of that settled heavily on his shoulders, heavier than any lab restraint had ever been.
The pack did not retreat.
They closed in.
One pressed against his side. Another lowered her head beneath his arm. Warmth spread—not fire, but presence.
Fenrik exhaled slowly.
He leaned into them.
They returned to shelter before the night could test them again.
Fenrik lay awake long after the others slept, staring up at the broken sky through gaps in the structure above. His body ached. His fire felt thin, stretched but obedient.
He had saved one.
He could not save everyone.
The truth settled into him with quiet inevitability.
This was leadership.
Not victory.
Not dominance.
Endurance.
Fenrik closed his eyes.
And when the long night finally passed, Helios-77 still belonged to wolves.