Fenrir Greyback Werewolf Novels & Stories

A response that got her a harsh kick in the face, to the fright of all the werewolves in the area. “Try that again. Who stands before you?” Fenris repeated. “W-Who else but you?!” a male responded then. Like the winery werewolf, however, his response was also met with violence, as Fenris grabbed him by the head and slammed him facedown on the ground, causing a crater to be formed, raising more fear in the werewolves. “Try that again. Who exactly stands here before you dogs?!” he repeated once more, raising his voice, as he slowly loses much of his patience and temper with these people.

My senses exploded, the scent of blood, the sharp cry of a dying wolf, and the taste of dirt and rage all hit me at once. Fenrir tore through the remaining Ironclaw wolves, his movements like a savage blur. He lunged as his jaws closed around the throat of one of them, sinking his teeth deep until life drained out of him. His jaws clamped around another wolf’s throat and crushed it in a single snap. The body dropped limp before the blood had even finished spraying. Another leapt at his flank. He met it mid-air, and his massive jaws clamp onto its skull. One twist and its skull shattered like glass. He flung the corpse aside, its limp body skidding across the blood-soaked ground.

They surged forward not as individual monsters, but as a single, undulating black tsunami, a relentless tide of entropy crashing toward the brave, trembling ranks of the united wolf and lycan army. Before the dark wave could break upon our vanguard, Fenrir unleashed the true magnitude of his thousand-year-old power. With a primal howl that shook the bedrock, he transformed. He did not just shift; he erupted into his majestic, ancient wolf form. He was a colossal beast of pure, incandescent silver, his fur radiating the cold, bright light of a full moon, his eyes burning like twin supernovas. The corrupted blood from his previous wounds boiled away into steam as his true essence ignited. He l

It was none other than Fenrir, a legendary werewolf whose strength and brutality were known throughout the supernatural realm. Aphelion's eyes narrowed at the sight, his grip tightening around his dagger. "Fenrir, what do you want?" he growled. Fenrir's voice reverberated with an unsettling mix of authority and menace. "Aphelion, it seems I have underestimated your allegiance," he sneered. "But you have no idea what lies beneath the surface. Your past deeds have brought about this convergence, and now, my power shall be unleashed."

I can't let this creature overpower me. Gritting my teeth, I launch myself at the werewolf, aiming for his vulnerable sides. But he easily deflects my attacks, his sheer strength overwhelming me. With a forceful swipe, he sends me sprawling across the room. "Impressive," he sneers, closing the distance between us with each step. I scramble to my feet, blood dripping from my wounds. "Who are you?" I demand, trying to buy myself some time. The werewolf chuckles darkly. "Call me Fenrir. And you, my dear, are just a little plaything for me to enjoy."

“No one has to die today.” The lead wolf lunged in answer. Fenrak shifted mid-motion, bones snapping and reforming in a brutal blur. His wolf was massive, silver-gray darkened by streaks of black, muscle rolling under his pelt. He hit the first rogue like a storm, tearing it down in a spray of blood. The second came from the side—Fenrak’s jaws found its throat and crushed. The third barely had time to snarl before he ripped it open. The fourth hesitated, then bolted into the trees, limping.

and back to the drawing board I go. Most don't know it, but I often discuss possibilities with Fenrir. The large, muscular man with tanned skin, brown eyes, and a clean-shaven head may not look like much in the brains department, but being the werewolf God of war has its place, as love and war always seem to go hand in hand. Fenrir and I sat quietly, side by side, on the wooden dock, gazing into the deep, dark waters of the large pond. The water was so dark that I couldn't even see my midnight black hair in my reflection. All I saw was my moon-white skin.

Last time I saw Fenrir, they were royal purple, like molten amethyst under the moonlight. Kassian’s wolf, Fenrir, is a stark contrast to Rowan’s Rune. Fenrir is larger, faster, stronger—an overwhelming force of raw power and ferocity that Rune, with his quieter, more agile presence, could never match. Yet, it isn’t just size or strength that sets them apart. It’s their eyes—those unmistakable marks of their deviance. Fenrir’s were a regal, commanding royal purple, while Rune’s shimmered a softer, almost ethereal lilac. Together, the Draven brothers were known for this rare and legendary trait. No shifter alive could mistake them—their wolves’ eyes were their signature.

His eyes glowed with a fierce, intelligent light, and his presence was both majestic and terrifying. "I am Fenrir," the ancient werewolf declared, his voice resonating through the cavern. "Who dares to awaken me?" Marinetta stepped forward, her heart pounding. "We did not intend to disturb your rest, great Fenrir. We seek your guidance and aid in a time of great peril. Dark magic threatens our world, and we need your wisdom." Fenrir studied them with a penetrating gaze. "The dark magic you speak of is a blight upon the land. I have felt its presence, even in my slumber. But tell me, why should I aid you?"

You could say they almost seemed scary, if Nadira didn't know who they really were. The girl on the left with long snow-white hair has a different eye color. Her right eyeball was brown, the result of the donation she got as a result of Nadira's past actions. There was a scar running across the eye. Meanwhile, her healthy, real left eye is black. This best friend is a wolf-shiftergirl… a countryman with the murderous gang that Nadira once slaughtered.