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~ Beneath the Wolf's Fur ~

Part One

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

23rd March 2025

All Rights Reserved

Prequel: A Wolf No More

It was glorious.

Axes cleaved through bone, swords howled through the air, and the screams—loud, guttural, triumphant—rippled across the battlefield. Lief revelled in it, the taste of war, the surge of violence coursing through his veins. His massive werewolf form was a blur of fur and fury, claws and fangs shredding through the ranks of his enemies. His mind, sharp and calculating, moved like the predator he was, an unstoppable force of nature.

The sound of war was music to his ears. The clash of steel, the dying wail, the thrill of power. His kin fought beside him, their movements as brutal and primal as his own. They were warriors—fierce, untamable. The greatest honour was to fall in battle and spill blood for the gods. The Valkyries would claim their souls, and they would feast in Valhalla—forever glorious, forever free.

Lief had longed for that moment. To join the gods in the halls of Valhalla, to bask in glory. He was ferocious.

But it was too much.

The enemy closed in. Spears, swords, and arrows rained down. The roar of battle became a blur, drowned out by the feeling of his own body being torn apart. His claws swiped furiously at his assailants, but fatigue gripped his limbs. The weight of the battle, the pain, the blood—they overwhelmed him. He could still fight, still kill, but the strength was fading.

Then they struck.

A spear pierced his side. Another stabbed into his shoulder. Lief roared in pain, but they didn’t stop. Seven, eight, each one sinking deeper, impaling him as they closed in. His body screamed under the assault, the force of each blow driving him closer to collapse.

The battle around him faded as the world narrowed to the steady thud of his heartbeat, the pressure of the iron on his body, the heavy pull of the fight draining from him. His legs gave way, and he crumpled to his knees. The weight of the injuries, the battle, the blood—they were suffocating him. But there was no time to rest.

A massive figure loomed before him. The warhammer swung with terrifying force.

The blow struck, and everything shattered.

A crack louder than thunder split his skull. The pain was unbearable—everything blurred into a crushing blackness. The world went silent.

Lief awoke in a haze, disoriented. His head felt as though it had been split open, and his body was foreign—heavy and sluggish. His limbs, once so powerful, trembled as they scraped against the dirt. Something was wrong. The sharp clarity of battle was gone. He could still smell the blood, feel the residual heat of the fight, but something was... missing.

Where was he? What had happened?

He crawled, dragging his broken form forward, desperate to find some clarity. The earth beneath him was soft, damp. His claws, still sharp, struggled to find purchase. A sense of panic clawed at him, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of what had just happened. The battlefield—his life—felt distant. The thrill of the hunt, the joy of bloodshed, were now vague echoes. They didn’t belong to him anymore.

A strange ache gnawed at his chest, deeper than the wounds. It was something inside him, as though his very essence had been torn away. The violence, the endless hunger—it no longer felt like his own. The rage had faded into something cold.

The forest’s edge was ahead. His vision blurred again, and he collapsed, his breath ragged, a howl caught in his throat. The pain of his skull pounding was almost too much to bear. His eyes fluttered closed. Everything went dark.

*

Chapter One: Waking World

When Lief finally awoke, the world had changed.

He wasn’t the unstoppable force of destruction anymore. He wasn’t the warrior. The rage that had once burned inside him—the thirst for blood, the joy in killing—was gone. It had been replaced by something else. Something unfamiliar. Something soft and disorienting.

His claws—once instruments of death—now felt clumsy, awkward. His body, once massive and terrifying, now seemed like a burden. He tried to rise, but his limbs betrayed him, trembling and weak. He stumbled, catching himself against a tree as dizziness washed over him. His senses, once sharp and keen, were clouded, disjointed. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt familiar.

The hammer—the crushing blow—had shattered more than just his body. It had fractured something deep within him, something he couldn’t name.

The urge to fight, to kill—it was still there. A faint whisper in the back of his mind, pulling at his instincts. But it felt wrong. The bloodlust, the battle-craving—those were no longer his truths. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He didn’t want to kill.

For the first time in his life, Lief resisted. He didn’t understand why, but he fought it, clinging to the strange calm that now settled over him. The primal hunger still gnawed at him, deep inside, but it didn’t control him anymore. He could feel the beast within, calling to him, urging him to reclaim his strength, to reclaim his power. But he didn’t want it. Not now.

And so, for years, he wandered.

Lost. Confused. Adrift in a world that had become a blur of trees, rocks, and sky. His mind, once sharp and calculating, now felt broken, shattered. Memories came in fragments, disconnected images—battlefields, blood, the roar of his kin, the taste of death. But they were no longer clear. They were ghosts, fading as quickly as they arrived. He didn’t know where he was going, or why. Only that he had to keep moving, keep walking through this new world that seemed so unfamiliar.

The man he had been was gone. The berserker, the Viking warrior, the bloodthirsty conqueror, was no more. The fires of war, the call to slaughter and pillage, had faded into nothingness, replaced by an ache that never quite went away—a void, a hollow space in his chest where all those desires had once thrived. They had been replaced by silence. And that silence was deafening.

Slowly, though, over the years, he began to rebuild himself.

It wasn’t easy. He had no name, no past. He was a beast, still marked by the bloodlust, but something else had taken root in him—something fragile. He learned to temper the rage, to control the hunger. The quiet solitude of the forest became his refuge, its stillness a balm for his fractured psyche.

He wasn’t the same. He had no treasure, no battles to win, no glory to claim. All he had now was the effort to survive, to find his place in a world that no longer called for warriors like him. It was a world where the quiet moments held value. The healing of his wounds, both physical and mental, was a long and painful process. But over time, he became something else—something quieter. Something more human.

He didn’t know who he was anymore, but he knew one thing:

He was no longer the monster.

*

Chapter Two: Wolf Wandering

Lief wandered through the forests and across the land, his senses disoriented, his mind a haze of confusion. The villages he passed were nothing more than fleeting moments in his endless wandering. He had no destination, no purpose other than to move, to keep going, though he wasn’t sure why.

Villagers saw him coming from a distance and fled in terror. Fear radiated off them like an aura, thick and sharp, yet Lief could not understand it. He wasn’t the same anymore. He wasn’t the bloodthirsty warrior they thought he was. But they only saw the beast.

And the beast, he realized, was still within him, a shadow that clung to him, lurking just beneath his skin.

He prowled the outskirts of each village he encountered, never fully entering, never allowing himself to become part of the world around him. He longed for acceptance, for a sense of belonging, but it was as if the very sight of him drove the villagers to their heels. They feared the wolf that had once ravaged their kind, and no matter how much he wished to prove that he was different, that he had changed, they saw only the monster.

His massive form, once a source of strength, now felt like a burden, an anchor that weighed him down. The primal instincts that had once fueled his every movement—the thirst for battle, the need for conquest—had dulled, leaving him with a hollow ache in its place. He no longer hungered for blood or glory. Now, he longed for connection, for something he could not name.

But it seemed impossible to find.

Every village, every passing moment, was the same: fear, avoidance, whispers that followed him long after he had passed. The beast, they saw. The terror of the past, always chasing him.

He continued moving, through forests and hills, across rivers and into lands he barely recognised, yet none of it felt like home. He was a creature of the wild now, and he had lost his place in the world. Even the forests, which should have been his refuge, felt foreign to him, too. The trees whispered his name, but they could not tell him who he was meant to be.

The primal hunger still burned inside him, but it felt like a different creature's hunger, one he could not appease. The rage, the desire to destroy, was still there—but it wasn’t him. It was something else, something he had been long ago. A distant echo.

Still, he resisted.

Why? He couldn’t say. Perhaps it was because, for the first time in his life, he wanted something different. He wanted peace. He wanted companionship. He wanted to be seen for who he was now, not for the beast he had once been.

But the world wasn’t ready for him. They saw only the monster, and that was all they would ever see.

*

Chapter Three: Wolf and the Tavern

A bard strummed a lively ballad on a lyre in the corner, and the room hummed with warmth—the clink of tankards, the murmur of conversation. Laughter rang out between swigs of ale, and the air smelled of roasting meat and wood smoke. It was a quiet evening, with no hint of the storm about to hit.

Then, with a crash that rattled the timbers, the door was torn from its hinges.

The music stopped as though someone had cut the strings, and the room fell into stunned silence. Tankards froze mid-air, a mug hit the floor with a metallic clang that echoed ominously. Eyes widened, breath held. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Leif stood in the doorway.

The massive werewolf filled the frame, his broad shoulders nearly scraping the doorframe. Fur thick as a bear’s covered his body, muscles shifting beneath it. His eyes—too large for any normal creature—scanned the room with innocent curiosity. He sniffed the air, taking in the strange, unfamiliar scents. He didn’t notice the way the crowd shrank back or how the light in the room seemed to dim under the weight of his presence.

With a booming voice that seemed to shake the walls, he called out, “Hello, human-friends!”

A few patrons near the back pressed themselves against the walls, but most were frozen in place, eyes wide, hearts pounding. Even the bartender stood motionless, a mug still in hand, his gaze locked on the hulking beast in the doorway.

Leif stepped inside, his paws thudding against the floorboards with each step. The sound was like a giant’s footsteps, deep and resonating. He was nearly tall enough to scrape the beams above, and each movement sent ripples of unease through the onlookers.

His gaze fell on the nearest person—a small, squishy-looking human sitting at the bar. With all the grace of a bear trying to make friends, Leif plopped down beside them, causing the stool to creak dangerously under his immense weight.

Without missing a beat, he nudged the human with one enormous paw. “Hello, human! I am Leif!” he said, his grin wide and filled with large, sharp fangs.

The person went pale, their face draining of colour. They stared up at him, frozen, sweat beading on their forehead, mouths opening and closing without a sound.

Leif’s smile grew wider, entirely unaware of their terror. “Am I doing it right?” he asked, his tone earnest. “I told human show teeth to each other, yes? Like this,” he added, leaning in closer, his lips curling back in that same friendly grin, his fangs gleaming in the candlelight.

The poor human’s lips parted, but all that came out was a strangled whisper before they collapsed to the floor, unconscious, with a soft thud.

Leif blinked, looking at the fallen human with a puzzled frown. “Go human broken?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. He leaned down and sniffed them, his massive nose hovering over the body. “I no mean hurt. Only want... friendship?”

The silence in the tavern grew even thicker, stretching on like a blanket of unease.

Some patrons, too terrified to move, simply stared. Others began to inch toward the door, but none dared make a sound, unsure whether any sudden movement would provoke a reaction from the towering beast. Fear seemed to ripple through the crowd like a wave.

One brave soul, a small man with a nervous tremor in his voice, whispered from the back, “Uh, I think we should leave...”

Leif, utterly oblivious to the growing panic, sat down heavily at the bar, taking up more space than any person could. He looked around, confused, and with his innocent smile still firmly in place, said, “Human no speak much? Why? I make you friend now.”

The room held its breath. No one spoke. No one moved.

Leif, noticing no one responded, peered down at the unconscious person at his feet, then back at the wide-eyed crowd. “Go human broken again?” he asked softly, his tone full of regret, as if this were some terrible mistake he didn’t understand.

The tavern remained still, a room full of wide-eyed patrons and a massive, confused werewolf sitting at the bar, just trying to make friends.

And so, the silence stretched on, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the soft clinking of mugs and the occasional nervous whisper.

One braver than the others, his face set with fear and determination, drew his sword with a trembling hand. Without thinking, he swung it toward Leif, the steel flashing in the dim light.

Leif blinked, uncomprehending, before lifting both massive paws. With a resounding smack, he caught the blade between his hands as though it were a twig. The weapon trembled in his grip. With a grunt of effort, he flexed his arms, twisting them as if wringing out a wet towel. The blade shattered with a sharp crack, pieces of metal clattering to the floor.

Leif frowned, staring at the broken remains in his hands. “Human not nice...” he muttered, his voice heavy with genuine disappointment. He glanced at the man, who had frozen in shock at the sight of his sword reduced to rubble.

The patrons, their fear now boiling over, didn’t need another hint. One by one, they scrambled for the door, chairs screeching as they bolted into the night. Within moments, the tavern was emptied, leaving only Leif and the broken shards of the sword behind.

Leif watched the emptying room, his face a mask of confusion. Then he turned back to the terrified man who’d dared challenge him. “I only wanted friend...” he said softly, his tone almost mournful. He lowered his paws to his side, and the broken blade shards fell to the ground with a soft clink.

Leif’s eyes brightened for a fraction of a second, a flash of yellow too sharp and too wild to be mistaken for anything but the primal beast lurking beneath. His shoulders stiffened, the air growing thick with the weight of something ancient and untamed. For just that moment, the tavern felt like a hunting ground—silent, tense, and filled with the smell of danger.

The man’s breath caught, a shiver running down his spine as the wolf’s gaze pinned him in place. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed. Leif’s grin returned, wide and friendly, though something about it now seemed just a little too... knowing.

“You go away now...” Leif spoke quietly, his voice carrying that undercurrent of warning. “Human not like Lief. Lief not hurt. Why human hurt Lief? Lief not like this. You go. Lief get... angry.”

Terrified, the human moaned, the front of his rough homespun trousers growing wet, before the blood drained from his face. He turned and fled, stumbling as he ran for his life.

“Human not like Lief,” muttered the werewolf, his face falling into an expression so heartrendingly innocent it might have melted the coldest heart. He turned to the trembling innkeeper, who had backed himself against the far wall. “Lief... hungry. Feed Lief?”

“What... what do you...” gurgled the innkeeper, frozen in panic.

Leif frowned, then looked around. Almost effortlessly, he leapt over the bar and sniffed the air, following the scent to the kitchen. He stared at the whole sheep slowly turning on the spit, his muzzle parting slightly as saliva began to drip from his lips.

“It’s... yours, whatever you want, please... please don’t eat me!” the innkeeper gurgled, his voice shaking.

Leif’s head tilted, his expression one of mild confusion, thoughts tumbling through his mind. Why humans think Lief eat them? Human taste bad. Baa taste good.

With effortless strength, Leif lifted the heavy sheep and iron spit off the fire, slamming it down on the table. With all the grace and manners of a Viking at a mead hall, Leif began to eat.

A fire crackles in the hearth, its warm glow casting a soft light over the room. Leif, having EATEN—not just eaten, but consumed the entire sheep, a large cauldron of stew, and downed it all with three kegs of ale—now lay in the aftermath of his glorious feast. The scattered remnants of his meal littered the floor around him, the last pieces of bone and scraps barely visible under the mess.

Clutching his overfull stomach, Leif let out a contented sigh, his massive frame wobbling slightly as he slowly stood. He felt the heavy weight of his food coma, and with a low grunt, he stumbled out into the taproom, dragging his feet like a tired giant. He found a spot by the fire and, without ceremony, curled up like a dog, his body taking up most of the space before the crackling hearth. His tail thudded against the wooden floor as he nestled in, content and sleepy, his nose tucked under his paws.

He slept blissfully until the door burst open with a bang, and a group of villagers—faces red with righteous fury—stormed in. They were armed with what they could grab: pitchforks, a broom, a broken bucket. The one in front held a burning pitch torch aloft like it was a weapon of great power. Their eyes were filled with fear, but also a sense of false courage. They’d had enough of this strange, terrifying creature, and now they were ready to chase him off for good.

Leif’s ears twitched, but he didn’t stir. It seemed like the commotion was more of a distant murmur to him as he lay there, utterly indifferent to the noise. The villagers began shouting, marching closer, their steps hesitant but filled with a misguided confidence.

Leif’s claws scraped on the floor as he lazily unfurled, stretching his long limbs like a giant kitten waking from a nap. His eyes blinked sleepily as he looked up at the group, his expression full of confusion and innocent misunderstanding. Was this some sort of game? Why were they yelling?

One brave villager, emboldened by the presence of the others, shoved the burning pitch torch forward, trying to look as menacing as possible. Leif’s half-lidded eyes turned toward the flame, still groggy from the overindulgence. He tilted his head, not sure what to make of it.

With a soft woof, he reached out lazily with one enormous paw, effortlessly snuffing the flame out by swiping the torch away as though it was just another stick. The fire sputtered, and the torch went out with a brief puff of smoke. He looked up at them with a playful tilt of his head, his tail giving a lazy wag, clearly amused.

"Ooh... hot..." he murmured, shaking his paw in mild irritation as though the unexpected heat was the only thing worth noticing.

They froze, stunned into silence. Their weapons now seemed pathetic in the face of this creature’s indifference. Their eyes went wide as Leif, still blinking sleepily, waited for someone to speak. But no one did. Not one of them could find the courage to take another step forward.

Leif’s tail wagged again in friendly amusement, but still, he gave no real indication of aggression, just an innocent, playful curiosity. After a few long moments of silence, one villager—perhaps the most sensible—stepped back, his bravado crumbling. Then, without a word, the rest followed suit. One by one, they dropped their weapons, their earlier bravado evaporating. Without so much as a glance back, they turned tail and fled, scattering from the tavern in a frantic, confused rush.

Leif, still half-asleep, watched them go with a simple, contented smile on his face. "Weird," he muttered to himself, then curled back up before the fire. His stomach gave a gentle gurgle as he snuggled into the warmth, head resting on his paws as his tail lazily thumped against the floor. The room was quiet once more, save for the soft crackling of the fire as Leif drifted back into his nap.

Humans funny... Lief thought, draping his tail over his nose, his eyes closing slowly, sleep claiming him.

*

Chapter Four: Payment in Kind

Come dawn, Lief woke and stretched, his muscles rippling and pelt twitching. His large claws left gouges in the timber as he rose and blearily looked around. The inn was empty, deserted. Leif's belly still ached from his previous feast, but the gnawing discomfort was quickly overshadowed by the overwhelming need to do something—anything—to make up for his hunger-fuelled indulgence. He lingered by the door for a moment, sniffing the air, feeling the pull of the woods, the call of the hunt. His eyes narrowed with determination, and with a quiet grunt, he set off.

Hours later, the great werewolf returned, dragging the massive, slain stag behind him. The animal’s long legs scraped along the dirt, but Leif's muscles easily held the weight. His tail swayed excitedly, like a big puppy who thought he’d found the perfect gift. He gave a happy woof as he approached the inn, the stag’s carcass bumping against the door as he tried to push it inside.

The innkeeper was wiping down the counter when he looked up and saw the enormous, dead creature being shoved through the doorframe. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. His incredulous gaze flicked from the beast outside to Lief, who stood in the doorway with a proud grin, tail wagging like mad.

“There you go!” Lief barked happily, pawing at the ground. “Food for... sharing!”

The innkeeper blinked, his face a mask of confusion, disbelief, and just a touch of fear. He opened his mouth but closed it again, shaking his head slowly. Then, finally, he let out a strained laugh, rubbing his temples. “By the gods... you—how—why would you—”

Lief cocked his head, completely oblivious to the man’s distress. “Is... good food? You eat now, yes? I—" He paused, his ears drooping slightly. "I... ate already... maybe too much?”

He pawed the ground again, and his tail wagged faster. He was trying so hard to be helpful, but it wasn’t landing the way he thought it would.

The innkeeper’s hands trembled as he looked at the stag, still dripping with fresh blood, then back at Lief, who seemed to wait for a reaction, his large eyes full of innocent hope.

With a heavy sigh, the innkeeper rubbed his eyes. “You... you’ve got to be kidding me.” He looked at the stag again, then back at Lief, who was clearly waiting for approval. There was a moment’s hesitation—then something shifted in the innkeeper’s gaze, an understanding that, despite the absurdity of the situation, the beast wasn’t acting with malice.

“Aye, well…” The innkeeper’s voice was dry, but his lips twitched upward slightly. “You’ve got a strange way of making ‘friends,’ big fella.”

Leif's face lit up with a happy grin as his tail thudded against the floor. “Good friends!” he chirped, beaming like a child proud of a gift.

As the innkeeper stared at the massive stag, something strange happened: the initial shock started to wear off, replaced by a reluctant sense of humor. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his face in disbelief. “Aye, well... let’s say I’m glad you’ve got a good heart, even if you’ve got no idea how to show it.”

Lief, oblivious to the innkeeper’s growing appreciation, nudged the stag further into the room with a little push of his nose. “Food for friends!” he announced, his voice light and cheery. “We eat together!”

The innkeeper’s shoulders slumped as he stared at the beast. “I suppose if nothing else, you’ve certainly made an impression.” He sighed deeply but couldn’t help a small chuckle. “I’ll never understand you, big fella. Never.”

Leif's tail wagged even harder, thudding against the floor in delight.

At that moment, a few villagers, who had been peeking in through the windows, murmured to one another. One timidly stepped forward, eyeing the towering creature with trepidation but also curiosity. “Did you see? He brought a stag... for the innkeeper.”

“They say he’s not like the others... but... he’s a beast, right?” another whispered.

“He could be. But he’s not harming,” came the hesitant reply. “Maybe he’s just different... like they said. Maybe he's not so dangerous after all.”

The innkeeper chuckled again, though it was tinged with exhaustion. “Might be the strangest thing I’ve ever seen, but... I guess we’ll figure this out, eh?”

Leif's tail thudded against the floor as he waited expectantly, his large, innocent eyes focused on the innkeeper. Then, after a pause, he barked again, “Food for friends, yes?”

*

Chapter Four: A Friend In Me

It had taken months, but eventually, the werewolf found a fragile, nervous place among the villagers. That night, the inn was filled with a strange, quiet tension. Villagers who dared to venture inside kept their distance from Lief, their eyes darting nervously toward the corner where he sat. The massive werewolf curled up like a giant puppy, knees pulled close to his chest, head resting gently on them. His fur was thick and glossy, his large eyes bright with innocence—but his sheer size and heavy presence kept everyone else on edge. His tail thudded gently against the wall, the sound oddly soothing in the otherwise silent room.

Lief, blissfully unaware of the unease around him, was lost in a food coma from the stag he had proudly delivered. The crackling of the fire, the murmurs of the villagers, and the soft clinking of mugs filled the space. Food had been offered, and though still terrified, some villagers seemed to settle a little.

Then, the door creaked open again. It wasn’t a group of fearful men clutching pitchforks or weapons this time—it was a woman, holding a small child by the hand. The child’s curious eyes immediately locked onto the hulking figure in the corner. The mother hesitated, glancing nervously at Lief, but the child eagerly pulled at her hand.

"Is it a puppy?" the little girl asked, her voice full of innocent wonder.

A dead silence fell over the taproom. All eyes turned to the werewolf, who slowly lifted his head, blinking sleepily. He saw the girl standing in the doorway, unafraid, her hands reaching toward him. She took a step closer, then another, her wide eyes sparkling with pure curiosity.

Leif's gaze softened. Slowly, he rose, towering over her like a giant, moving with deliberate care. His heart seemed to stop for a moment. No fear in her. No terror. Just wonder.

The mother’s breath hitched as she watched, tears welling in her eyes. Her hand flew to her mouth, half in awe, half in panic. The room held its collective breath, waiting for the wolf to lash out, for instinct to kick in and tear the child apart. But that moment never came.

Lief crouched down, massive paws gently pressing into the ground as he lowered himself to the girl’s height. His tail wagged slowly, the tip brushing the floor with a soft thump. He sniffed at her, his nose brushing against her cheek. Then, as if confirming she wasn’t a threat, he leaned forward and gently licked her face.

The child squealed in delight, giggling as the warm, wet tongue brushed across her cheek. Leif's tail thudded against the floor again, a low, contented rumble escaping deep within his chest.

"Good puppy," the girl said, her voice filled with joy, completely unaware of the fear that had once gripped the room.

The villagers, still frozen in place, watched in disbelief. The monstrous creature they had feared was now nothing more than a giant, fuzzy playmate to an innocent child. The tension in the room slowly dissipated as the girl reached up, her tiny hands gently patting Leif's large, furry head.

Lief, for his part, remained utterly delighted. His massive eyes shone with tenderness, sharply contrasting his terrifying appearance. He continued to nuzzle the girl gently, his tail wagging faster now. For a brief moment, the world around him faded, and he was just... a large puppy, enjoying a moment of innocent affection.

But the mother, still on edge, couldn’t stop the quiet sobs that escaped her lips. She tried to hide it, but the sight of her child safe and laughing, touching the beast that had once terrified her—emotions overwhelmed her.

Lief paused, sensing the shift in the air. He tilted his head, confusion deepening in his eyes. He didn’t understand why the woman cried, only that he didn’t like it. So, with all the care in the world, he gently stepped back, lowering his head as if offering her space.

The girl remained unfazed, giggling and hugging him tighter, her innocent trust giving the room a peace it had never known.

“Good puppy,” she repeated, her voice full of joy.

Odin, All-Father, Lief thought. I want to be.

*

Chapter Five: Proving One's Worth.

Lief stood in the crisp morning air, his broad, fur-covered shoulders hunched as he toiled alongside the villagers. The heavy wooden sledges creaked under the weight of the firewood they loaded, and his paws—thick and powerful—moved easily across the snow as if it were no more than a mild inconvenience.

A week ago, they had asked for his help—reluctantly, but with quiet desperation. The harvest had been sparse, the cold biting, and the villagers’ survival depended on every scrap of wood they could gather. Lief did not need warmth, not in the way they did. The chill didn’t bother him, and he could carry more than the strongest men in the village. So, he worked. Day after day, the sledges loaded higher with firewood. He did it without complaint, without hesitation.

In return, they gave him scraps—food he didn’t need. He never said it aloud, but they could see it in his eyes: he was far more interested in what the others had than the meager portions they offered. Every now and then, a piece of venison would land in his paws, and though he would accept it without protest, his gaze would wander to the young calves, or to the fattened sheep grazing in the distance.

They knew. The villagers knew. His eye would brighten at the sight of them, and a low whimper would escape his throat. The faintest glimmer of something feral would flicker in his gaze. He’d wipe the drool that had gathered at his lips and flick it away, as though ashamed of the hunger that gnawed at him.

It was coming.

He could feel it, the rising tide of desire, the pull of the full moon. The beast within him stirred, restless and impatient, eager for the hunt. The closer it drew, the more insistent the call became. Every time the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars glittered in the night sky, that other side of him—raw, primal, unstoppable—threatened to break free.

And he knew. He knew that when the moon was full, he couldn’t stay. Not here. Not with them.

His new pack.

They weren’t like the people he had once known, the ones he had killed and ravaged in a past life, back when he had been the warrior they all feared. These people had no fear of him, not in the way his past had shaped him to understand fear. They treated him like something... different. Not a monster, not an enemy—but a creature of some other kind. They were cautious, always watching, always waiting for something to snap inside him. He couldn’t blame them. He knew they were afraid, but he also saw in their eyes something else—hesitance, curiosity.

He wanted to stay. He longed to stay.

But the beast would rise, and when it did, they would be in danger. He could feel it deep inside, a gut instinct that told him he couldn’t risk it. Not again.

But they had come to rely on him.

Lief had become part of their rhythm. In the mornings, he helped drag the sledges, working like a beast of burden without complaint. In the evenings, he sat by the fire, his enormous frame curled up like a dog, his head resting on his knees. And the children...

The children had become curious about him.

One little girl, no older than five, would often sneak close, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. He could see it in her expression. She didn’t know what he was, not fully, but she understood that he was different. And that made him want to protect her, to keep her safe.

His heart ached with something he couldn’t define, something soft that clung to him like the warmth of the fire. The idea of hurting them—any of them—felt wrong. And yet, the moon’s pull was relentless.

That night, he found himself staring up at the dark sky, the moon just beginning its climb toward fullness. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked toward the distant hills where the wild things roamed. He could feel the shift inside him, the change in his blood. It would only be a few more days. A few more days, and the beast would rise, and it would be beyond his control.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the quiet night, his voice thick with regret.

But it didn’t matter. The beast would come, and he would have to leave.

Early the next morning, Lief woke, feeling the pull of the forest, the undeniable urge to wander. He quietly slipped away from the village, his massive form blending with the shadows as he disappeared into the trees. He knew he had to go—he had to hunt, to embrace the beast that lurked beneath his skin. The villagers would never be safe with him around when the full moon rose. They’d never understand the beast within him, and he couldn’t ask them to. Not again.

But before he left, he stole one last glance at the village—a glance he would remember forever. And for the first time since his arrival, a deep, aching sadness filled his chest.

He didn’t want to leave them.

But he had no choice. He would hunt, he would satiate the beast, he would return. They were his pack, and a wolf protects that which is their pack.

*

Chapter Six: Unwelcome Visitors

Dawn broke as it always did—quiet, unassuming. The village stirred to life with the soft hum of daily activity: hearths crackling, hammers pounding, and the distant bleating of sheep. But as dusk approached, a subtle shift rippled through the air. The wind carried a foreign chill, and the sky darkened too soon.

The brigands came.

A cruel band of lawless men, driven not by the King’s taxes but by their insatiable greed. Swords drawn, they filled the air with jeering laughter, the sound of vultures circling in search of prey. Their faces twisted in cruel smiles as they forced their way into the village, scattering frightened villagers like leaves in the wind.

With an air of entitlement, they seized whatever they could—livestock, grain, and anything of value. Mercy was foreign to them. They tore through homes, smashing doors, ransacking sheds, and dragging terrified women into their arms, hands violating the last remnants of their dignity. The cries of the young women were swallowed by the laughter of the men who claimed it was their right, their “tithe” to the King.

But it was Alyssia, a gentle soul barely eighteen, whose suffering left the deepest scars. Her body bruised, her spirit shattered under their cruelty. Yet their malice did not end with her. They took what they wanted without regard for the lives they trampled.

And so they left, as they always did—a trail of misery in their wake.

But something, something unseen, watched from the shadows of the woods.

Lief had seen them. He had heard what they did, and his hackles rose, his dewlaps pulled back in fury. To him, this was unforgivable. A bitch was to be honoured, respected—courted by the alpha. But they had taken something far more precious than material goods. They had taken a part of his pack.

Silently, the wolf padded after them, stalking, hunting. He knew retribution would be swift, bloody, and brutal.

In moments, he crossed miles of land, his massive form a blur of speed as he raced through the trees. When he reached the clearing where the men rested—boasting and bragging about their deeds—they had no inkling of the terror closing in.

In the woods, eyes gleamed with the fire of the full moon above.

A low growl rumbled in Leif's chest. He moved like a shadow, unnoticed by the men lost in their arrogance. As they neared their wagon, laughter echoing in the cold night air, the predator in the darkness claimed them.

With a blood-curdling roar, Lief surged from the shadows. The first brigand had no time to react. A massive paw struck, sending him sprawling to the ground, blood splattering across the snow. The air was filled with the thunder of violence as Lief moved with terrifying precision, his fury unstoppable.

Another brigand raised his sword, but Lief was faster. He seized the man by the throat, lifting him with one powerful swipe, snapping his neck in one smooth motion. The rest of the band turned to flee, but it was already too late. Lief was a blur, his rage unstoppable as he tore through them one by one. Their screams were brief, silenced quickly.

By the time the last man fell, Lief stood over the bodies, panting, his blood-soaked fur glistening in the moonlight. He stared down at the carnage, his breathing slow and steady. His mind was clear again. The beast had done what was necessary—and now it was done. It would remain nothing but a memory.

Days passed, and Lief returned to the village, his steps heavy but measured, as if the wild creature that had reigned in the woods had never existed. He was again the gentle giant, the “puppy” they had come to accept into their strange, fractured family. The beast was gone, but its presence lingered, deep inside him.

On the third evening after the brigands, Lief sought out the village elder—a man with greying hair and a weathered face who had seen the village endure countless hardships. The elder was bent with age, yet his heart was strong. Lief stood before him, posture respectful, his expression soft, though the weight of the beast within him was evident in his gaze.

The elder looked at him with quiet understanding, his sharp eyes never missing a detail.

“They will trouble you no more, old one,” Lief said, his voice deep and resonant, filled with reverence, as his head bowed.

The elder swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat. He placed a weathered hand on Leif's massive head, his touch soft but firm. His voice cracked with emotion, but his resolve held.

“I will not condone nor condemn you, Lief,” he said, his voice thick with unspeakable gratitude. “But you have done my people a service. I wish you could have prevented what was done, but you have done what we could not. It shall be enough.”

Lief gave a subtle nod. No words were necessary. The elder’s acknowledgement spoke volumes.

The village would go on, free of the terror that had haunted them. Yet, beneath that peace, there remained an unspoken truth: their protector was something far more primal than they had ever imagined.

And Lief, carrying the weight of his actions in silence, retreated once more into the woods. The quiet, gentle creature they knew would return—but the beast, too, would always be a part of him. For now, peace reigned. And while Lief would never take the place of the Alpha, he would never again leave them helpless.

*

Chapter Seven: The Wolf and the Healer

Lief cradled the young woman against his chest, her sobs soft but desperate, her broken forearm still trembling in his grasp. The beam that had fallen in the stable had crushed her, and she clutched her arm, trying to hold herself together. Lief could feel the pulse of her blood, smell the raw scent of injury, and it stirred something deep within him. The beast—his primal self—gnawed at the edges of his mind, urging him to act in ways he knew he should not.

The predator’s instincts clawed at him, but he pushed them back with sheer will. He had to remain calm, for her sake. With a swift motion, he scooped her up, his claws careful not to pierce her delicate skin, and loped toward the healer’s cabin with terrifying speed.

The healer, known for her gentle hands and soft-spoken words, had already been called for. She wasn’t like the others in the village, not a witch nor a priestess, but still, they looked to her with a mix of reverence and unease. Some called her unnatural, but none could argue with the work she did. Lief did not care for such rumours; he only knew that she had the skill to save the girl.

Inside the healer’s cabin, the woman was laid on a cot, her face pale and her breath shallow. The healer, a woman named Emily, moved quickly and efficiently. She administered a dose of herbal medicine that pulled the woman into a merciful sleep, her fragile form relaxing in unconsciousness.

Lief paced outside, the scent of blood heavy in the air, mingling with the earth and pine of the woods. It was intoxicating, familiar, and primal. He could feel the weight of the beast stirring within him again. The presence of blood in the air always made it worse.

Odin, Lief silently prayed, closing his eyes. All Father, grant me strength. I am not the warrior I once was. I do not crave blood and battle, but the beast... the beast within me stirs. Grant me the strength to resist it, and to keep my soul clear, unworthy of Valhalla but still under your grace.

Moments later, Emily emerged, wiping her hands with a damp cloth. She paused when she saw him—tall and massive, his eyes sharp and dark with the weight of the forest itself. The scent of blood was still on him, heavy, but there was something else—something different. She stepped back, eyes widening.

Lief paused, tilting his head in confusion. It wasn’t the usual reaction. Most villagers, when they saw him, were either curious or fearful, but Emily’s fear was palpable. Her wide eyes seemed to lock on something, and then her hand moved instinctively to her cheek, wiping away a small smear of blood.

Leif's eyes flicked to the mark. He knew the scent of the woman’s blood. His gaze lingered on the smear, something in his chest tightening. He moved closer, his massive form crouching as he approached her. His large paw reached out slowly, carefully, his claws held back as he used a leathery pad on his finger to gently wipe the smear from her face.

The moment his paw touched her skin, her breath hitched. The trembling in her hands became more pronounced, and her eyes, now fixed on him, widened in terror. She stepped back so quickly, she nearly stumbled. Her voice quivered as she muttered something he couldn’t make out, and before he could respond, she was backing into the cabin, her hands raised in a gesture of defence.

“Please, go,” she whispered. “Please... just leave.”

Lief stood motionless for a long moment. His heart ached as the weight of her fear washed over him, but there was something else, something deeper, in her reaction. She was not simply afraid of him—no, her fear was of something else entirely.

She is sensing me, Lief thought, a flicker of realization washing over him. I may be gentle, I may be kindly, I may play at being a puppy and loyal, but beneath it all, I’m still what they fear—a wolf—a predator.

He stayed still as she slammed the door behind her, the heavy sound of the iron bar falling into place. His brow furrowed, confusion twisting within him. Without thinking, he put the bloodied finger in his mouth, his broad tongue curling around it. His eyes brightened for a heartbeat, savoring the iron-rich blood of a human.

She was desperate, trying to save the young woman. A moment of carelessness. Nothing more. Lief thought, his mind racing. She wiped her bloodied hand over her cheek to flick away sweat. I’m overreacting. It’s so soon after the full moon, my emotions and thoughts are tangled still.

He kept walking, an unsettled feeling in his stomach. A voice, not his own, from his darker, primal side, slithered insidiously into his mind.

Young wolf, are you so certain?

Lief paused, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He found he had no answer.

*

Chapter Eight: Whispers in the Candlelight

It was busy, the inn was warm, its fire crackling in the hearth, and the soft hum of conversation filled the air. Emily sat in the corner, alone at a small table, her plate of salad untouched as she picked nervously at the greens, her fingers shaking slightly. A mug of ale sat before her, its foam slowly receding, but she had barely touched it. Her eyes flicked to the door every few moments, as though expecting something—or someone. The murmurs around her were palpable, though none were spoken loud enough to reach her ears directly. Yet, with her sharp senses, she could feel them, the weight of every whisper pressing against her.

“Witch, they say,” came a voice from the far corner. A woman’s voice, low and hushed. “Always with her strange remedies. You’d think she’d be out in the woods, brewing potions and casting curses.”

Another voice, younger, uncertain, added, “But... but she saved Alex's life last winter. And she helped my son when he fell off that pony. He’s walking just fine now. She’s no witch, not really. She’s just... different.”

Leif's sharp hearing, tuned to the smallest sounds, caught every word, every tone. His eyes followed Emily, noting how she sat perfectly still, doing her best to ignore the subtle whispers that fluttered around her like moths to a flame. She appeared calm on the surface, but there was an almost imperceptible tension in her posture, an awareness of the scrutiny she faced.

“She’s unnatural, that one,” another voice broke in, sharper, full of suspicion. “She always wears that scent, of lavender and rosemary, it's nice, but... why? None of us wears such creations? Too clever, too quiet. She’s hiding something, mark my words.”

Leif's eyes narrowed as he focused on the woman at the table, her features half-hidden by the low light of the inn. She wasn’t like the others, who had come to accept him. No, Emily, with their fearful glances or their distance. She didn’t react, didn’t flinch, when people looked her way. But her scent... that scent lingered in the air, soft but unmistakable. He could smell lavender and rosemary, a calming fragrance so different from the stench of fear that filled the inn whenever he stepped too close.

He stood motionless at the far end of the room, his gaze fixed on Emily. She was the only one here who didn’t seem afraid of him, the only one who didn’t cower when he passed. There was something about her that intrigued him, something that made his instincts buzz with confusion.

A man seated at a nearby table said, louder than the rest, “She’s a gifted herbalist and healer. Saved my cousin when he had that fever. And when my daughter broke her leg, it was she who set it, no one else.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “A bit strange, sure, but who among us isn’t?”

The murmurs softened, but they didn’t fade. A few more voices joined in, talking about her kindness, her knowledge of herbs, her reputation as a healer. But there were always those lingering doubts, those whispered suspicions that she was something more than she seemed.

Leif's muscles tensed, the wolf within him sensing the anxiety, the unease radiating from her. She might not have shown it, but he could feel the weight of her loneliness, the isolation she faced every day, even in a crowd. He understood that feeling, perhaps more than anyone else here. But unlike him, she was always on edge, always hiding something, always watching the world with an awareness that made her stand apart from the rest.

As the conversation around her continued to shift between praise and suspicion, Emily finished her meal, her movements deliberate, controlled. She stood, carefully gathering her things, and approached the bar to pay. She placed a large stack of copper coins on the counter with a soft clink, the metal pressing against the wood with a finality that seemed to reverberate through the room.

The crowd tightened around her as she made her way out. Their whispers grew louder, more insistent, but she ignored them, keeping her head down. As she passed through the room, a sudden shift in the air made Leif's nostrils flare. There it was again, that unmistakable scent—lavender, rosemary, and something else, something elusive, almost hidden beneath the fragrance, like the deep, earthy scent of the woods after rain. His wolf side stirred restlessly, the primal part of him alert, drawn to her scent like a moth to a flame. His body stiffened.

But there was more—something fleeting, something that made his chest tighten, his breath catch. It was a wild, untamed scent, something raw, instinctual. The wolf within him pushed forward, its voice whispering in his mind: Prey...

Lief inhaled deeply, forcing the thought away, shoving it down, back into the recesses of his mind. He was not a predator anymore. Not like this. Not with her. But the wolf’s whisper wouldn’t silence so easily.

As she left, the inn door swinging shut behind her, Lief remained in the shadows, his mind racing. His senses, too sharp for his comfort, still clung to her scent, the lavender and rosemary mixing with something wilder, something untamable. His gaze remained fixed on the door, his body frozen for a moment longer, trying to make sense of the connection he couldn’t explain.

And then, as the last remnants of the smell faded into the night, his mind returned to the present.

What was it about her?

*

Chapter Nine: Healer No More

Emily trembled, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as she pressed her back against the cold cottage door. The rough wood offered no comfort, only the weight of her rising panic. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat thundering in her ears. She glanced around the dimly lit room, shadows stretching unnaturally toward her, as if reaching for her.

She had heard every word tonight—every whisper, every hushed comment at the inn. The good, the bad, the suspicions, the lies. It had all been building for weeks, the pressure inescapable. Her stomach churned, the remnants of her dinner now a sour, bitter taste in her mouth, mixing with the ale she hadn’t even touched. It was the taste of a secret too big to hide forever, and the suffocating weight of everything she had been trying to outrun.

Her eyes flicked to the cracked window. The moon—no, it wasn’t just the moon. The change had already begun. That damned moon was rising higher, creeping into the room with an unrelenting glow that felt like it was pulling at her from within. Her body had been warning her all day—the tightening in her chest, the cold sweat at the back of her neck. She had ignored it. Pushed it away, buried herself in the routine, in distractions. But now, here it was. The transformation. The moon. The inevitable.

No… no, no, no… Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t stop it. She should have known. She should have known.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she pressed a shaky hand to her face, trying to hold herself together. "I couldn’t..." she whispered, voice cracking. "I couldn’t stay. Not after everything they said..."

Her fingers trembled as they reached for the door, the cold metal handle searing her skin. She couldn’t stay here, not tonight. She had to get away—into the woods, into the wild, where she could be again. Where no one could see the truth of what she was. Where she wouldn’t have to hide anymore.

But as her hand clutched the handle, the first wave of agony struck. Her knees buckled, the world tilting as the pain flared through her limbs, sharp and sudden. The transformation had come too quickly. It was already too late.

Her breath hitched as her spine twisted. Her boots split as her feet began to contort, merging into hooves, her bones grinding and reshaping beneath her skin. The sickening crack of bone against bone echoed through her skull. Fur sprouted in patches, tawny and thick, spreading from her legs up, a painful rush of fur that couldn’t be ignored. She wanted to scream, but her throat couldn’t form the words—only desperate, ragged breaths.

She fell to the floor, gasping, her spine snapping as it lengthened, cracking painfully. Her body was betraying her, twisting beyond her control. Her fingers—no, her hands—fused into hooves, nails growing into sharp points. Her human form slipped away, faster than she could hold onto it, until she was no longer herself.

When it was over, she stood on unfamiliar hooves, the ground beneath her feeling like it was far too soft, far too fragile. Her once-human body was gone. In its place was a creature of instinct, a beast.

The pain had subsided, but it was replaced by something else: an insatiable hunger. A gnawing, primal need. She needed to run. She needed to flee. She couldn’t stay in this form, couldn’t stay near people who might see through her, might recognise the monster she had become.

With a guttural growl, she broke through the door, splinters flying as the wood splintered under her strength. She pounded into the night, her hooves striking the earth with frantic force. The cold air cut through her fur, but it wasn’t enough to cool the fire inside her, the hunger clawing at her insides. She had to feed.

The snow-crusted ground beneath her hooves felt too soft, too unfamiliar. Yet, she was driven, her instincts sharp and unyielding. Her senses heightened, the smell of earth and cold wind mixing with the faint scent of prey. A flicker of movement caught her attention—a rabbit, its white fur barely visible against the snow. It was enough.

She dropped into a crouch, her muscles coiling with predatory instinct. In one swift, precise motion, she pounced. Her claws sank into the rabbit’s soft flesh as her teeth clamped down around its neck. The creature’s struggles were brief, its life fading in an instant, the warm blood rushing into her mouth.

She devoured it quickly, her instincts pushing her to tear through its flesh with hunger-driven urgency. But still, the beast inside her was not satisfied. There was a deeper, more primal hunger that couldn’t be quenched with a simple kill. She needed more.

After finishing the rabbit, she dragged the carcass to a secluded patch of snow, blood staining her fur. She wiped her muzzle clean on the cold ground, a delicate, instinctual gesture as she buried the remains beneath the surface, erasing the trace of her kill, hiding the scent as a dog might bury a bone.

But it wasn’t enough.

The wind shifted, and her senses flared. The air grew thick with something familiar yet strange—a scent she couldn’t name. Something deep inside her reacted to it, a buried recognition. Her heart hammered in her chest as her ears flicked back.

Her muscles tensed. Her instincts screamed for her to flee. To run from whatever was near, whatever it was that had disturbed the air. But the scent—it lingered, gnawing at her, pulling her toward it. Was it another creature? A hunter? She didn’t know, but she could feel it.

Her eyes narrowed. Her breathing quickened. She could hear something—rustling branches, a snap of a twig underfoot. The world seemed to go still, and for a moment, she was frozen in place, caught in the moment before chaos would break out.

The scent grew stronger.

And then, from the shadows, something moved.

*

Chapter Eleven: A Doe Captured

Emily’s heart thundered as the wolf’s weight crushed her to the cold earth. Her breath caught, her scream stifled in her throat—utterly useless. The searing pain in her neck flared as his fangs sank deep, the brutal twist of his jaw tearing into her flesh. Blood spilled in hot, thick rivulets, the pressure of his mouth unyielding. She was prey. This was the end.

But then, something within her snapped—primal, raw, untamed. Instinct took over, and before she could even think, her head snapped back, slamming her skull into the wolf’s cold, damp nose. The sharp impact startled him. He yelped, loosening his grip just enough for her to act.

Her hind leg kicked out with everything she had, striking his hind leg with bone-shattering force. The crack beneath her hoof was satisfying, and the wolf’s howl of pain pierced the night.

His fangs ripped free from her throat with a sickening, wet sound, leaving her neck raw and leaking blood. His leg, ruined by the impact, buckled beneath him, and he staggered back, growling, the pain in his body twisting into a fury that burned in his eyes. He wasn’t finished. He couldn’t stop. He needed to kill her.

Before he could lunge again, terror surged through Emily’s veins. She didn’t hesitate. Her hooves struck the earth in frantic desperation as she bolted into the forest, the world around her a blur of trees and shadows. Every stride sent jarring waves of pain through her body—her legs screamed with exhaustion, but the pounding fear in her chest pushed her on.

Her throat ached with every shallow breath, the blood pooling in her mouth, hot and thick. The forest spun, dizziness clouding her vision as she stumbled over roots and rocks. Her muscles burned as she ran, her lungs fighting for air, but the pain in her neck reminded her she wasn’t safe yet. She had to keep moving.

Her hooves tore through the underbrush, the sound of her panic-laced flight almost deafening. She didn’t dare look back, but her mind screamed in every heartbeat. Run, run, run.

Finally, her legs betrayed her. The ground beneath her seemed to tilt, and with a final, exhausted stumble, she collapsed beside a towering aspen. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she curled beneath its protective branches, her chest heaving, blood pooling around her neck in sticky warmth.

The cold seeped into her bones, but it wasn’t just the chill that made her tremble. The remnants of adrenaline raced through her veins, making her body quiver uncontrollably. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the night.

She wasn’t safe yet. The wolf could be out there, watching, waiting for the moment she showed herself again. But for a brief, fragile moment, she was hidden.

The silence around her pressed in, heavy and oppressive. Her body was still, coiled tight with fear, her mind racing in confusion. She had fought back. She had struck him, and yet, it hadn’t been enough. She was still prey. Still hunted. The thought clung to her, suffocating, gnawing at her from within.

But then, beneath the fear, beneath the panic, there was something else. A flicker. A spark. A whisper of recognition. She wasn’t just a doe, waiting to die. She wasn’t entirely powerless. Her instincts had saved her.

But what did that mean? What did it say about who she was? What could she become?

The aspen’s leaves rustled above her. It wasn’t the wolf. Not yet.

She waited, the tremble in her chest spreading to every part of her being. The silence stretched on, suffocating. She could hear the forest around her—a distant owl, the rustle of leaves—but it was all too quiet. The weight of the moment threatened to crush her.

All she could do was wait. Tremble. Wait. For the next move.

*

Chapter Twelve: The Realisation

The wolf staggered, feeling the cold, wet earth beneath his paws as the burning in his leg spread like wildfire. He was tired, aching, his body humming with the aftermath of the fight. But that hunger—deep, gnawing—still held him in its grip. He had killed. He had taken what his instincts had told him was prey. The doe was his.

But as he stood over the body, blood staining his muzzle, something in the air shifted, prickling the fur along his spine. It wasn’t the taste of the blood that bothered him—it was something else. Something that wasn’t right.

Lavender. Rosemary. The unmistakable, sharp scent of deer fat.

It was a doe, wasn’t it?

The wolf’s nose flared, pulling the scent deep into his chest. The blood, warm and fresh, was familiar in its sweetness. But beneath it—the fragrance of lavender and rosemary lingered, just as it always did when Emily had passed him in the village. The healer. His heart stuttered, confusion bubbling up like a foul tide. That smell… it couldn’t be. She couldn’t be here. She wasn’t this.

But it was the same.

He licked his lips, tasting the blood again, letting the sharp tang roll over his tongue. His head spun, a twisted mix of hunger and something else—something unnameable, gnawing at him. His mind struggled to accept it, but the scent was undeniable. The same as Emily.

“No...” he breathed, almost a growl. He shook his head violently, as if to shake the thought loose. But the scent stayed. The blood stayed. He could smell her, feel her—everywhere in the air. Impossible.

No. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t hunting a doe.

A deep, guttural snarl rumbled in his chest. The scent, so foreign yet so familiar, pulled at something primal inside of him. He had never hunted a weredeer—he didn’t even know such a thing could exist. And yet here he was, standing over a creature that looked like a doe—a red deer, so perfectly natural, its scent a perfect match for the forest.

But when he stepped closer, the blood-slicked fur beneath her neck caught his attention again. He could still feel the pulse of life, the warmth of it sinking into his own skin, but as he looked down at the doe, his throat tightened. There was something… something deeper.

The body in front of him—this creature—wasn’t just a doe. No.

Lief took a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowing as the blood scent from her neck and chest still clung to him. He hesitated, breath slow and shallow. The fur, the markings on her hide—they were a perfect evolutionary disguise. A predator wearing the skin of its prey.

He reached down, his claws scrabbling at the edge of her jaw, and pulled her lips back gently.

And then he saw it.

Fangs. Sharp, gleaming fangs. Fangs that didn’t belong to any mere deer. They gleamed like ivory in the dim light, cruel and deadly, a perfect match for the sleek, dangerous curve of her antlers.

His stomach dropped.

No. His mind screamed in horror as everything—everything—he knew about this moment shattered. The blood, the scent, the appearance of the doe—it had all been a perfect disguise. A perfect deception.

A weredeer. Emily had been a weredeer.

Her scent, familiar as it was, was laced with something deeper, something darker than the sweet perfume she wore in the village. He hadn’t smelled it before. Not like this. But now, the knowledge of it—the understanding of what she truly was—flooded his senses, and his mind reeled.

The blood, still warm on his tongue, now tasted wrong. Not because it was deer’s blood, but because it was hers. The scent of rosemary and lavender, the texture of her fur—it all made sense now, though he could hardly bear it. This wasn’t just an animal. This was her—Emily.

But how? Why?

How could he not have known? How could he have been fooled?

The wolf snarled, pulling back, confusion and rage surging through him. He wasn’t a fool. He knew what he had hunted. But this wasn’t hunting—this was something else.

His body trembled, caught in the conflict between man and beast. The wolf wanted to finish what it had started. The man, though—Lief—he couldn’t. His mind was reeling with the weight of the truth.

Emily, the healer, the quiet, kind woman who had walked through the village with her soft smiles and gentle hands, was this. A creature of the forest. A beast.

A predator.

The fangs gleamed at him, as though mocking his ignorance.

And yet... his thoughts ground to a halt. There was something about the way she lay there, almost defenceless. She had fought back—had fought like her—fierce and wild. But the desperation in her eyes, the fear, the knowing way she tried to survive—that wasn’t just animal instinct. It was something deeper.

His heartbeat stuttered again. She wasn’t just prey. She wasn’t just another beast. She was Emily, twisted into something more.

And as the reality of it settled on his chest like a stone, Lief realized, with horror, that he had just torn through the one person who had meant more to him than anyone.

He stumbled backward, almost retching at the thought, the pull of hunger still twisting his gut.

But the wolf wasn’t finished.

And neither was Lief.

*

Chapter Thirteen: The Broken Wolf

Leif's return to the village was anything but graceful.

The moon had long since set, leaving the forest in a mournful silence, save for the occasional rustle of leaves beneath his weary feet. He limped, each step a reminder of the savage confrontation, the bone-deep ache in his leg the only thing tethering him to reality. He had no memory of how he had made it this far, his thoughts scattered, his mind still hazy from the shock of the encounter.

What had happened? What was she? A weredeer? It didn’t make sense. She was prey. She was—no. She was not. The memory of those piercing, amber eyes haunted him, the frantic struggle for survival, the raw panic of his own body tearing into hers. His wolf had fought, had tasted her blood, and yet... there was no satisfaction in it. No pride. Only the confusion of a hunter who had failed to catch what he thought he understood.

He wasn’t ready to face the village. He knew that much. The small, tight-knit community would demand answers, and he had none to give. Not for what had happened out there in the woods. Not for what she was. And especially not for why, in the moments before the fight, he had felt something stir deep within him—a desire to protect rather than to kill.

His leg throbbed, a slow, insistent reminder of his injury. It had to be healing; it would heal quickly, as it always did. But for now, it still hurt. Still slowed him down.

The village was quiet when he arrived, the usual hum of daily life muted in the early hours of morning. The streets were empty, save for a few early risers. But even in their quiet, they noticed him—he couldn’t hide it.

“Lief!” A voice called, one of the village men. Kalle. Lief offered him a half-hearted wave, limping a little faster, but the pain in his leg was growing, sharp and insistent.

“Where’ve you been?” Kalle asked, eyeing him closely. “You’re limping. Did some animal get to you?”

Lief barely registered the words. He nodded, hoping the half-truth would satisfy. “Wild animal,” he muttered, the words feeling wrong in his mouth. He couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth. Not yet.

Kalle’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t look like a simple scratch,” he said, his tone concerned. He stepped closer, inspecting the scratch marks on Leif's exposed arm. “Those look deeper than that.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Lief grunted, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just... rough night in the woods.”

Kalle didn’t seem convinced, but he let it go, turning back toward the barn. “Just be careful. We don’t need anyone else falling prey to whatever’s out there.”

Lief nodded absentmindedly, feeling the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air. He could feel Kalle’s eyes lingering on him as he walked away, the suspicion thick in the air. Lief is hiding something, Kalle must have thought. It wasn’t just the limp—it was the disorientation in his eyes, the way he moved like someone lost in thought.

As Lief made his way deeper into the village, more villagers began to notice. The local blacksmith gave him a strange, piercing look as he passed. Hilda, the baker, paused in the middle of hanging a basket of bread to observe him carefully. Their eyes flicked between his injured leg and his distracted demeanor. They’d never seen him like this before—unsteady, almost... confused.

Lief was starting to feel the weight of their gazes. Every glance was a needle piercing his resolve. He wanted to scream at them to look away, to pretend like everything was normal, but it wasn’t. Not anymore.

They won’t understand.

They couldn’t. Not without the truth, and the truth was something he wasn’t ready to face, even himself.

His legs led him to his small cabin at the edge of the village. The sight of it should have been comforting, but now it felt like a cage. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, the dim interior casting shadows over his mind.

He sank onto his bed, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. The pain in his leg was subsiding, but the turmoil inside him was only beginning. He wanted to close his eyes and pretend it hadn’t happened—that the encounter with the weredeer had just been some bad dream. But he knew it wasn’t. He knew that she had changed something inside him, something he wasn’t sure how to deal with.

His wolf side growled softly inside him. Protect her.

Leif's chest tightened at the thought, and he scrubbed his hands over his face. No, that wasn’t possible. Not after what she had done. She had nearly killed him. He could still feel the brush of her hooves, the deadly force of her antlers as they struck him. She wasn’t like him. She was... something else.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Lief?” came a voice, low and hesitant. It was Maeve, his closest friend in the village.

He sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m fine,” he called, opening the door just enough to peer through. “Really, I just need to rest.”

Maeve’s eyes flicked over him, the concern clear on her face. “I don’t know if you should be alone right now. You’re hurt, Lief. You’re not yourself.”

He couldn’t look at her for long. Maeve was perceptive, too perceptive. She would notice the deep confusion in his eyes, the conflicted turmoil. She would see through the cracks in his facade.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, voice firmer this time. “I just need rest.”

Maeve’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t argue. She nodded, albeit reluctantly, and gave him one last lingering glance before she walked away, her footsteps echoing in the quiet morning.

Lief closed the door, sinking back down onto the bed. He stared out the window, at the village he had known all his life, now a place that felt distant, strange.

The villagers had begun to notice. They were starting to ask questions. They would never know the truth of what had happened in the woods. And he wasn’t sure if he ever would, either.

*

Chapter Fourteen: Broken Heart, Broken Doe

Emily sat alone beneath the towering trees, the forest offering its quiet embrace. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. The ancient oaks and pines stood like silent guardians, but the weight of her thoughts, of the memories, pressed down on her with unbearable heaviness.

Her throat ached, the wound where Leif’s jaws had closed on her neck still fresh despite the days that had passed. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain lingered, a dull throb that pulsed with every movement. Yet it wasn’t the physical pain that gnawed at her; it was the fear. The terror that had seized her, that still clung to her like a shadow, suffocating every breath.

The encounter with Leif had shattered something inside her. She had fought, had nearly been consumed, and for the first time in years, she had felt small. Vulnerable. The predator in him had been undeniable, and the moment they locked eyes, her instincts had screamed at her to run, but her body had frozen, paralysed by terror.

She couldn’t go back to the village. Not yet. Not when she could still feel the weight of his gaze, the memory of his power. He had almost killed her, nearly torn her throat out—and yet, despite everything, something inside her whispered not to hate him. Was it the wolf inside him, or was it him? She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know.

The ferocity of his jaws had sent her crashing into the trees, but the fear had been deeper—rooted in something primal, something that stirred in her even now. Her hands trembled, not just from the lingering physical pain, but from the terror that still clawed at her chest. The scarf around her neck, the one she had wrapped so tightly, was a constant reminder of her failure. The wound had healed, but the mark remained. A scar would never fade, would always be there to remind her of what had happened.

It wasn’t just the scar that bothered her. It was what it represented. Her weakness. She tugged the fabric tighter, trying to shield herself from more than just the view of others. It was a mask, a facade that she had worn for so long, but it could never truly protect her. Not from them, and not from herself.

She hadn’t left the forest in days, too terrified to return to the village, even to check on the few animals she cared for. When she did venture back, even for just a brief moment to grab food, she kept to the shadows, moving like a ghost, avoiding any contact. There were whispers, but they didn’t matter. Her heart thundered in her chest, her only focus the sound of her heartbeat.

“What if they find out what I am?” The thought whispered in the silence, a constant gnawing fear. She wasn’t human—not in the way they were. She was a deer, caught between two worlds, never truly part of either. Not even herself.

The first time she returned to the village since the attack, it had been a brief moment—just to grab food from the inn. Her head stayed lowered, her gaze fixed on the ground, desperate to stay unseen. The villagers were whispering, but their words were lost to her. Maybe it was about Leif’s return. Maybe it was about the wild animal attack he had claimed to have endured. But she couldn’t hear them, couldn’t focus on anything but the feeling of their eyes, their judgment, their fear.

Every part of her wanted to bolt, to flee deeper into the forest, but she knew she couldn’t hide forever. She needed food. Supplies. The longer she stayed away, the more the villagers would talk. She had to survive. But how was she supposed to face them? She couldn’t look them in the eye, couldn’t bear their stares. The scarf, the mark of her weakness, would only draw attention to what she wanted to hide most—the truth of who she was.

She hadn’t been back since that visit. The pain in her neck had lessened, but the emotional wound was still raw, still festering. Her body slowly healed, but her mind? It remained fractured, lost in the dark space between who she had been and who she feared she would become.

Every day, Emily sat alone, trying to find some peace, some sense of stability. But the quiet was only an illusion. The darkness in her mind, the terror from that night, hovered just out of sight, waiting to consume her again.

She hadn’t realized how much the village had meant to her. How much of her sense of self had been tied to the place, to the people. The isolation was suffocating. She wanted to scream, to tear off the scarf, to let the world see her for what she truly was—different, marked, terrified. But that, too, would mean exposing everything she was afraid of.

One evening, as the pain in her neck finally began to subside, Emily stood before the mirror in her small cabin. The dim light flickered across her reflection. Her hands shook as she slowly untied the scarf. The skin beneath was raw, tender, a jagged scar marring her throat. A constant reminder of what she had survived, what she had been through.

She stared at the scar for what felt like hours, her breath shallow, her chest tight. She was both ashamed of it and confused by it. She had survived, but at what cost? What was she supposed to do with this?

The scarf had been her shield. A protection from the world she feared. But now, standing before the mirror, she realized it wasn’t just the scarf that kept her hidden—it was the fear of being seen for what she truly was. She wasn’t ready to confront that truth, not yet. But every moment spent in hiding was one more moment she lost of herself.

With a shaky breath, she tied the scarf back around her neck. The fabric was soft against her raw skin, and she stepped back into the shadows, her heart heavy with words she couldn’t speak and scars too deep to understand.

*

Chapter Fifteen: A Wolf and His Human

Lief sat alone beneath the canopy of ancient oaks, his broad back pressed against a gnarled tree. The wind howled above, rustling the leaves, but the noise barely reached him. In his chest, a storm raged—one far more dangerous than the elements.

Doe . _ _No, not Emily. The thing she had become. Doe. Prey. Weak. The wolf's certainty gnawed at him.

His claws dug into the damp earth, muscles tight with the tension of restraint. His fingers twitched, torn between curling into fists or reaching for his axe, a tool once used for battle but now a symbol of a life he had nearly left behind.

The wolf prowled in the back of his mind, its presence strong and insistent. It wanted the kill. It remembered the moment when her throat had bared itself to him, her body faltering, as if offering herself up. The hunt had been on, and in that instant, he had known: She should have been prey. His wolf growled, its hunger sharp.

But that wasn't how things had gone.

His breath came ragged, uneven. _I nearly killed her. _ The taste of her blood lingered on his tongue, twisting his stomach into knots. He could still feel it—her defiance, the way she had driven him back. He had never expected it. He had been the predator, and yet, in that brief, bloody moment, she had made him the hunted.

The memory of her hooves, striking like a warhammer, flashed before his mind. Her eyes—burning with something far deeper than hunger—had locked with his, and in that fire, something primal had snapped in him. She hadn't submitted. Not then, not after.

At first, yes, she had stilled beneath him. Ready. Accepting.

But then something else had risen. Not instinct. Not panic.

Something darker. Something ancient.

Leif's tongue traced the outline of his fangs. "She hurt you, didn’t she?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, raw. The wolf did not answer, only growled low in the back of his mind.

And in that silence, something inside Lief twisted. Something heavier, something that felt like shame.

His head thudded against the rough bark of the oak as he let the thoughts circle. He could still smell her—earthy, wild, tainted with iron. A scent that should have belonged to prey, but now, it was tangled in his mind. What was she?

The wolf was relentless in its hunger, clawing at the edges of his thoughts. Prey does not fight. Prey submits. But she had fought. She had struck with purpose, not animal desperation, and that confusion churned in his gut.

The wolf demanded action. It wanted to finish the hunt. It wanted to tear her apart, to sate its bloodlust. But Lief—he hesitated.

A flicker of memory. The way his berserker rage had once been his focus. A battle. A life before. He could almost taste the fury, the heat of blood pouring over his skin, the need to crush, to conquer. That was the path of the beast, and it had once consumed him completely.

But not now.

Leif's breath was uneven, chest tight, caught between the monster within and the man who had become something else entirely. The wolf snarled in frustration, still clouded by hunger. Prey doesn’t fight. Prey doesn’t break a wolf’s nose. Prey doesn’t snap a leg and run. Prey submits.

But Emily hadn’t submitted. She had fought like a warrior.

Leif's claws dug deeper into the earth as the weight of it pressed on him. He could still see the fire in her eyes, that defiance that burned through the fear. It hadn’t been animal panic—it had been something calculated. Something deep-rooted. She had made him work for it.

"You fought," he muttered to himself, the words coming slowly. "You fought like a predator." His voice was hoarse, raw. The wolf inside him growled in reluctant acknowledgement.

The beast inside him resisted the truth, but it couldn’t deny it. _Emily had earned his respect . _

Leif's chest tightened further. He had seen her as prey. She had shown him she was more.

The wolf inside him snarled, but it was no longer the same growl. There was no arrogance in it anymore. It knew—Emily was no mere doe.

The wolf’s frustration simmered beneath his skin, but with it came an undeniable shift. Not prey . _ Not something to be devoured. _A shield-maiden. Worthy of standing beside in battle. Something within him—a primal memory from another life—stirred.

His heart ached with the weight of the thought. Emily wasn’t just a creature to consume; she was something he had to understand. Something that had forced him to question the very core of who he was.

"Not prey," Lief whispered again, as if affirming a truth that had finally settled deep inside him. "She’s not prey." He closed his eyes, letting the weight of his conflicting thoughts settle in his chest.

The wolf rumbled, reluctant, still clinging to its desire, but it had been forced into submission. Emily had broken his arrogance. She had made him see her.

For the first time in a long while, Lief allowed himself to breathe deeply, without the gnawing hunger in his chest. He had been a berserker once. But that part of him—his rage, his need to crush and destroy—had died on the battlefield. In its place, there was something else. Something quieter, something more.

And it was that something that respected Emily.

She is a doe. Does are prey, the wolf grumbled, the primal instinct still echoing deep within. But something shifted. With a reluctant pause, it added, Whatever lives inside her, like I do, within you... it is not prey. It is... worthy. Worthy of respect. The word hung between them, thick with uncertainty. I would call it... sister.

To Be Continued...