Wisdom

The first snow hadn’t yet fallen, but the air was already sharp enough to cut. Diva stood at the edge of the Moonborn village, her shoulders squared though her thoughts were heavy. The wolves here moved like shadows—fluid, quiet, powerful. She had come to them not for comfort, but clarity. And they had given her silence.

Until now.

Fenric, the oldest among them and easily the most feared, found her standing near the sacred stone where elders offered their nightly chants.

"You came for answers," he said, voice rough like wind through dry leaves. "But you carry more than questions."

Diva didn’t flinch. "I carry what I must."

Fenric eyed her, the firelight catching the faded scar along his temple. "And what of the mark on your arm? That is no ordinary burn. That is power."

She rolled her sleeve back. The sigil shimmered faintly under the moonlight, its lines curved like claw and flame intertwined.

"I didn’t choose it," she said. "But I won’t run from it either."

"Good," Fenric murmured. "Because running wouldn't save you."

He stepped closer, the space between them charged with unspoken truths.

"The Hollowfangs won’t stop. Not while the blood of the old kings still runs. And they will smell it on you, no matter how deep you hide."

Diva nodded. She had sensed it since her last encounter with the cursed pack—their hunger wasn’t just for domination. It was for her. For what she was becoming.

"You speak like a wolf who knows battle," she said, narrowing her gaze. "But do you fight like one?"

Fenric’s lips curled. "I’ve fought enough to know that rage without discipline is suicide."

A pause. Then he added, "I will train you. If you can endure it."

"You want to test me?"

"No," he said. "I want to sharpen you. Not with claws. But with truth."

"And what truth is that?"

"That you will be hunted. That the mark on your arm is not a blessing. It's a beacon. And if you're going to carry it, you need more than wisdom. You need to endure."

Diva looked out at the rising moon. Then back at him.

"Then teach me. But don’t think I’ll be easy to break."

Fenric smiled faintly. "Good. I only train wolves worth breaking."

---

The first morning was brutal.

Fenric didn’t waste time with pleasantries or slow introductions. He pushed Diva through drills she’d never imagined—training that relied less on brute strength and more on instinct, endurance, and willpower.

“You want to lead wolves?” he asked as she struggled to keep pace through the thick underbrush. “Then bleed with them.”

She fell. Got up. Fell again.

But she didn’t stop.

She bit back groans, channeled her breath into rhythm, turned her pain into motion. And Fenric watched—not with scorn, but with a calculating silence.

By midday, she was limping. Her muscles trembled. But her eyes had not lost their fire.

Fenric handed her a piece of dried root. “Chew. Helps with the shaking.”

She took it without a word.

“You’ve been alone too long,” he said as they rested by a stream. “You’ve learned to guard yourself from pain. That’s good. But you’ve also forgotten how to trust someone to catch you if you fall.”

Diva looked at him, suspicion flickering in her gaze. “And you want me to trust you?”

“I want you to learn how to survive when trust fails you,” he said simply. “And how to know when it doesn’t.”

That night, Diva returned to the village battered but whole. The wolves gave her space—no longer out of fear, but respect. Even Aila, full of questions, held her tongue and only curled beside her without a word.

Diva barely touched her food. Her body screamed with exhaustion, but her mind wouldn’t rest. Fenric's words echoed too loudly.

---

The next week was worse.

Fenric taught her not just how to move like a wolf but how to think like one. To feel the ground with her bare feet and know what lay beneath. To listen not to noise but to silence. To wait, to watch, to strike with purpose—not rage.

They sparred with wooden blades carved from fallen branches. Fenric never held back. He disarmed her again and again, but each time she rose faster. Smarter.

“You don’t need to be stronger than your enemy,” he said, circling her. “You need to be more stubborn than their will to win.”

Diva swung wide. He blocked. She ducked low and twisted—but Fenric flipped her to the ground.

“Better,” he said. “But you thought about it too long.”

She coughed and stared up at the sky. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re improving,” he said, offering her a hand.

She took it.

---

On the sixth night, Mayla joined them by the fire. Fenric had cooked a simple meal of root broth and salted meat. Diva sat nearby, arm freshly bandaged from a sparring cut.

Mayla regarded her. “You look like you’ve been through a storm.”

Diva gave a tired smile. “I think I am the storm.”

Fenric chuckled.

Mayla leaned forward. “There’s word from the west. Hollowfangs are moving again. Not openly—but shadows travel fast. You may have bought us time, Diva. But time’s a luxury we can’t waste.”

Diva straightened. “I won’t waste it.”

Mayla looked to Fenric. “Is she ready?”

Fenric’s eyes reflected the firelight. “Not yet. But she will be. And when she is, no shadow will find her unaware.”

---

Later that night, long after Mayla had left and the fire had burned low, Diva remained awake.

She looked at her hands—calloused, scraped, stronger than they’d ever been. Then at the mark on her arm, faintly glowing beneath moonlight.

She remembered the wolves bowing. The way the ground had trembled with unity rather than rage.

And she understood what Fenric had meant.

This mark wasn’t a gift. It was a call to arms.

She wasn’t meant to carry it in silence. She was meant to rise with it.

---

The next morning, as Fenric approached her with a wooden blade and a hard lesson, Diva met him not with weariness—but resolve.

“I’m not the same wolf who stepped into your shadow,” she said.

Fenric gave a small nod. “Good. Because the world you’re stepping into won’t care who you were. Only who you choose to become.”

She raised the blade.

And this time—she struck first.