The march wound through the forest like a knife dragged through flesh, slow and unsteady. There was no road here, only narrow paths pressed between roots and undergrowth, the canopy blotting out much of the sky. Each step cracked branches, kicked stones loose, drew eyes upward to the branches where pale faces sometimes swung, silent reminders of what hunted them.

From the first hour, the harassment began. The Shadow Wolf's howl carried across the canopy, answered by his pack. Scouts sent wide returned less and less often. Some vanished entirely, the only sign of their passage a brief scuffle in the distance, or the dull thud of a body falling among the ferns.

Ferin struck like a shadow of his own, slipping into patrols and cutting them apart before alarm could spread. Auren's arrows whispered through the brush, Wind Dao carrying them faster than the eye could follow. Wolves lunged from behind trunks, dragging vampires into the undergrowth where steel and fangs finished what the arrows began.

The matriarch's response was swift. Scouts no longer traveled in twos or fives, but in squads of ten, their paths crossing constantly to prevent isolation. Diviners rotated forward every hour, straining their sight until the air grew sharp with the smell of exhausted mages with potion poisoning from so many mana renewal potions.. Twice they foiled ambushes outright—flaring warnings as Auren and Ferin shifted in for the kill, forcing the hunters to vanish back into the brush. Once, a diviner's cry brought three Barons charging, their shadow-knives tearing the pack apart until the rest of the wolves could escape.

Barons no longer waited. They stalked beside the scouts, shadows stretching from their cloaks, eyes bright with hunger. More than once they drove the hunters back by sheer force, scattering wolves and scattering arrows alike. Yet for every engagement they won, two more scouts failed to return.

When bodies appeared hanging in the branches, soldiers cut them down quickly, trying to deny the hunters their trophies. But more than once, those corpses gasped as steel severed their bonds. Lira's art twisted them upright again, eyes glowing, hands clawing. They fell upon their comrades with unnatural strength, cutting down two or three soldiers apiece before they were torn apart again. Each time it happened, whispers surged through the column, murmurs of witchcraft and curses.

The diviners strained harder, their visions stretched thin, warning of both hunters and the taint of whatever magic bound the corpses. It saved lives, yes—but it cost them mana, effort and qi. The effort left them pale, lips cracked, eyes sunken, and still the ambushes came.

For two days the forest closed in around them. Roots tangled their boots, branches raked their armor, and every breath carried the scent of damp earth and blood. Wolves prowled just beyond sight, their howls ringing through the trees, reminding even the strongest among them that they were being herded, measured, tested.

By the second evening, the march slowed. The last of the sun's light filtered down in thin shafts, painting the forest floor in dim gold. Ahead, the trees grew denser, the undergrowth rising in choking knots that forced the column into single file. The path narrowed until it was little more than a funnel of roots and shadow.

The matriarch raised a hand, halting them. Her eyes traced the dark tangle before them.

A trapped wood. She could feel it in her bones.

And beyond, hidden in the silence, the Calamity waited. They had followed the path of the escaped slaves and it ended here.

The forest beyond the fort was silent, the branches interlocked so tightly they seemed to form a wall of their own. From the battlements Harold could see where the path narrowed into that strangled funnel—dense, bristling with hidden snares. The trapped wood waited like a sprung jaw, ready to snap shut the moment the enemy pressed too far.

Behind him, the fort hummed with preparation. The walls came complete but now log and stone reinforced with mana, their faces carved with runes that thrummed faintly in the dusk. As soon as Kelan started to reinforce them the mana he used carved themselves into the walls. They were thick enough to turn arrows and hardy enough to hold a Baron's blade for a time, long enough for defenders to rally. A big upgrade when Daran, still a knight, could cut through them.

But Kelan and the others were far from finished. A deep trench circled the fort, already widened and now being sunk lower still. Crews worked in a line, sweat streaking their faces as they drove sharpened stakes into the earth, each one angled outward like the teeth of a beast. Others hauled timber, dropping it into the trench to form killing fields no charge could easily cross. Kelan stood among them, one hand pressed to the soil, the other gripping his hammer as he poured mana into the earth. With each pulse, the trench deepened, the walls thickened, and the ground itself bent closer to his claim.

"Every spike, every stone," he'd told Harold earlier, voice low but certain, "adds to the Bastion. The more I claim, the harder it is to take. Here, even a Baron will feel the weight of it. I think there would be some interesting evolutions if I evolve this skill. That's my next goal."

Harold could feel it too. The walls thrummed with energy, faint but present—a pressure that clung to the air. This was no crude forest palisade anymore. It was an established fort, and Kelan's will ran through every stone. Ferin and Auren had fought a near constant war for two days to slow their march and the fort was better prepared because of it.

The hunters returned in the fading light, slipping through the gates like wraiths. Ferin came first, blades sheathed and bow slung but eyes bright. There was a weight to him now, a sharpness Harold recognized even before the man spoke. Auren followed, bow slung at his back, his movements light though his frame carried fresh cuts. The Shadow Wolf padded at their side, silent but proud, its fur streaked with blood not its own.

Harold met them at the trench's edge. "So? How'd it go?"

Ferin gave a short nod, voice steady. "Fifty dead, mostly scouts including many tier 3's. Two Barons slain, several others wounded. The poison worked better than we dared hope. Tier Threes and below? It kills them outright. We strung the bodies where they fell. They'll think twice before walking alone in these woods again."

Auren leaned against a stake, shaking his head. "That mixture… gods, Harold, Lira and Rysa concocted something serious there. Lira's touch made it sing. I rationed it, but when it hit, it crippled them. It was the only way we were able to kill those Barons. Tier Threes just… died." He tapped his bow. "Every arrow dipped in it is worth a kill."

Harold's gaze lingered on Ferin. "And you?"

The older hunter's eyes glinted. "I've advanced. High Knight. Years of stagnation gone in a breath." He exhaled, almost disbelieving. "Your words lit the path. I'll not circle it again."

Auren snorted, though the edge of a smile crept across his face. "Peak Squire, that's me. The line's right there—I just need to see it. Killing a Tier Four Baron didn't hurt either. Bumped me to mid-Tier Three. Not a bad day's work."

The Shadow Wolf rumbled low, stepping forward until Harold felt Oathsense stir between them. Its eyes burned with expectation.

Hal's voice brushed into Harold's mind. He's ready. The fight woke him. He stands at the edge of Tier Three. I've found a den. He should take it. And there's more—you should come. You need to see what that tantrum your soul has done.

Harold exhaled. He still felt the echo of that blast—the tearing fire that had left him hollow, staggering for days. Even now, exhaustion clung to his bones, though each day the weight lessened. Yet if Hal said that his pack had changed… then the cost had borne fruit.

He glanced back at the fort one more time. Fires burned in the trenches, soldiers sharpened weapons on stone Kelans dwarf set up, water was being hauled and prepared on the walls to stop fires.. Kelan stood with one hand on the wall, mana threading outward like roots, claiming the very earth beneath their feet. The walls already looked sturdy but now they were an actual obstacle.

Harold turned back to Hal and the Shadow Wolf. "Show me."

The frost wolf's ears twitched, his muzzle lowering in something close to a smile. Then come, Harold. Come see the hunters you've forged.

And together they stepped from the fort, into the deepening night.

The forest closed around Harold as he left the fort. Holt marched at his side, her shield ready on her arm, three of her shield-bearers trailing just behind. They kept tight around him without needing an order, their eyes flicking to every shifting shadow in the undergrowth. The howls that had haunted the column for two days sounded different here.

Hal appeared at the edge of the path, pale frost clinging to his fur despite the warmth of evening. His eyes caught Harold's, steady as stone. Come. They're waiting.

The frost wolf turned, padding silently ahead. Harold followed, boots crunching over roots and leaves, Holt's steady presence anchoring him on the left. The shield-bearers kept their formation close, not speaking, though one muttered a prayer when the howls grew louder.

The den was not what Harold expected. It wasn't a hollow cave or burrow—it was an opening in the forest where stone outcroppings rose like jagged teeth, their gaps leading down into cold earth. Around it, wolves lounged. Dozens of them. Their eyes caught the torchlight, gleaming in shades of ice and silver.

Most were Tier Ones, smaller but lean, muscle taut with hunger. A lesser number were Tier Twos, their bodies broader, fur thicker, eyes sharper with a hint of cunning. None bore his brand. None carried Harold's direct mark. Yet they gathered here all the same.

They were bound not by Harold—but by Hal.

The frost wolf strode forward, his presence rolling outward like cold mist. He hadn't grown taller; his body still carried the same proportions as before. But everything about him was more solid, more inevitable, as though the forest itself bent to acknowledge him. The air around him had changed, sharper, colder, like the breath of winter pressing in on their lungs.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Harold lifted a hand, summoning the panel.

Name: Halvor Race: Greater Frost Wolf Alpha (Rare) Level: 234 Class: — Cultivation Rank: Baron Occupation: —

HP: 8885  → Fortitude 709 × 10 = 7090  → Strength 359 × 5 = 1795  → Total = 8885

Mana: 2700  → Intelligence 180 × 10 = 1800  → Willpower 180 × 5 = 900  → Total = 2700

Intelligence: 180 Willpower: 180 Charisma: 74 Fortitude: 709 Strength: 359 Agility: 709 Perception: 361

Dao Affinity: Ice – Low Baron, Pack – Low Baron Brands Active: 5/5

Harold blinked at the change. Greater Frost Wolf Alpha. Rare species. These stats are insane. They're much higher than mine.

Glacial Fang (Tier 3)

Active | Melee Strike

Fangs flash white-blue, coated in frost. A bite leaves wounds that immediately begin to freeze, causing numbness and gradual damage. If the victim dies while frozen, their body shatters into brittle ice.

Winter's Resilience (Tier 3)

Passive | Endurance

Your body has grown solid and unyielding. Your hide resists both physical and Magic Damage, and cold only strengthens you. Wounds close faster in freezing conditions, and fatigue fades more quickly when among your pack.

Alpha's Presence (Tier 3 Aura)

Passive | Aura

You radiate an overwhelming dominance that steadies his allies and unsettles his foes. Wolves and allied beasts within your aura fight with heightened aggression and coordination, their fear suppressed and their stamina drain reduced. Enemy creatures of equal or lower tier instinctively hesitate or falter when facing you, their instincts whispering that the predator before them cannot be challenged.

Hal turned his head slightly, as if hearing the thought. His breath misted the air. I've grown. Not upward. Just more. His voice in Harold's mind was deeper now, colder but steady. They felt it. That's why they came.

Harold reached out without thinking, his hand settling on the thick ruff of fur at Hal's neck. The wolf leaned into him, solid as a wall of ice. Harold pulled him closer, wrapping both arms around the beast's shoulders. For a moment the cold clung to his skin, then melted beneath the warmth of the bond they shared.

"You've grown," Harold murmured. His throat was tight, but the words carried steady. "And I couldn't be prouder."

Hal huffed once, a short sound that was half-growl, half-laugh, pressing his weight into Harold in answer. The air between them carried not just the frost of his presence but the iron sense of belonging, of pack. For an instant Harold forgot the looming army, the fort. There was only this.

Hal was the first he could rely on in this new life—the bond that had carried him through when he had nothing else. Harold's hand tightened in the wolf's fur, and his voice dropped low.

"You will always be first among equals, my friend."

Hal's ears flicked, and before Harold could straighten, sharp teeth nipped lightly at his arm. The frost wolf's eyes gleamed with mischief. Don't let Lira hear you say that.

Harold barked a short laugh, shaking his head. "I'd never hear the end of it."

Around them, the wolves stirred. Tier Ones lowered their heads, ears back, acknowledging Hal's dominance. Most of them were a common forest wolf variant but as they evolved they would become more. Tier Twos stayed upright, watchful but still, no challenge in their stance. The pack had chosen its Alpha, and its Alpha had become something more.

Holt's shield-bearers shifted uneasily at the sight of so many predators gathered so calmly. Holt herself said nothing, though her hand lingered near her spear.

Harold exhaled, watching the pack gather tighter around Hal. He could feel it through Oathsense—cold, sharp, unyielding. The den wasn't just a hollow in the ground. It was a throne room.

"Looks like you've been busy," Harold muttered.

Hal's eyes glinted in the torchlight. We needed numbers, these members won't be able to match our enemies one on one but numbers will help. I will not spend their lives needlessly. Even for you. I will grow more powerful based on the size of my pack.

Harold exhaled, watching the pack gather tighter around Hal. He could feel it through Oathsense—cold, sharp, unyielding. The den wasn't just a hollow in the ground. It was a throne room.

"Looks like you've been busy," Harold muttered.

Harold gave a short nod, words caught in his throat. Hal had become more than a companion; he was becoming a lord in his own right.

The frost wolf padded ahead, leading him down the rocky descent into the den. The air cooled sharply as they stepped into the dark hollow, stone walls glistening with frost where Hal's presence lingered. Wolves shifted as Harold entered, their eyes reflecting the torchlight in pairs of glinting gold, silver, and pale blue.

At the center of the den, four figures stood. The branded.

The Shadow Wolf was the first to rise as Harold and Hal stepped deeper into the den. His pale eyes found Harold's, then flicked to Hal, and for the first time since they had met, the beast dipped his head in a deliberate greeting. He pressed his muzzle briefly to Hal's flank, a gesture of recognition, then padded back to a stone outcropping. His body lowered, curling in on itself as shadows welled from the cracks in the stone. They crawled over his frame like a cocoon, sinking him into stillness. Harold felt the change stirring in him even before the wolf closed his eyes. The Shadow Wolf was evolving.

The chamber fell quiet but for the soft rasp of wolves shifting in the dark. Then the Ashen Pair stepped forward.

Side by side as always, their mottled coats stirred with movement. At first Harold thought fire had caught in their fur — faint embers glowed between their teeth, and sparks danced along their paws. But the flame never bloomed. Instead, ash drifted from their pelts in slow, steady streams. Where it touched the ground, tiny flares of ember-light pulsed and died, leaving behind no burn, only the scent of smoke.

The pair stepped forward until they stood before Hal. Both lowered their heads, necks bared not in fear, but in recognition of their Alpha. Then, in unison, they turned to Harold and did the same.

Oathsense rippled through him, sharp and resonant. This was no casual submission. It was a vow.

Race advanced: Oathbound Ash Wolves (Epic).

Note: These wolves do not seek packs. Their bond is forged in ash and oath. They exist only as guardians, their strength bound to their Alpha's survival.

Harold let the screen fade, staring at the pair. Ash still drifted from their pelts, sparks glowing faintly before winking out. Not fire, not shadow — something stranger. Something steadier.

Hal stepped forward, pressing his muzzle to each wolf in turn. They shuddered under the contact, then rose again, eyes brighter, bodies heavier with strength.

Harold found himself smiling despite the cold that pressed into the room. "Not fire wolves," he murmured. "Not hunters. Guardians."

Hal's gaze turned toward him, pride and certainty pressing through Oathsense like a weight. They are mine. They chose this path because of me. Because of us.

Harold nodded slowly. He could feel it — the soul-deep vow that bound them. When the Ashen Pair fought, they would fight not for prey, not for the pack, but for their Alpha. They were shields wrought from ash and stubbornness, and so long as Hal stood, they would not fall.

Harold swallowed, moving between them. The Ashen wolves radiated a cold cunning, their forms still filled out but honed sharper, ready. The Shadow Wolf remained a presence apart—older, darker, his eyes burning with quiet intelligence. But then it was the frost wolves that drew Harold's attention.

They had grown massive since he last saw them, shoulders broad, fangs white-blue with rime. Their presence filled the chamber in a way Tier Twos never could. He called their sheets with a thought.

Harold blinked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Hal's old race—Juvenile Frost Wolf Alpha. Uncommon at Tier 3, but a rare sight nonetheless.

He glanced down at Hal beside him, his larger frame solid, his aura colder, heavier, far more present. A gulf of power stretched between him and his kin, but it was not a gap of contempt. They followed him still, as brothers might follow an elder.

Hal's breath misted in the air. They became more because they chose the path. My pack rises because it must. If they remain weak, they die. But these ones… his gaze swept across the four, pride as sharp as steel, these ones will not die easily and will lead their own packs under me. Our home is not big enough to support all of us. They will be your scouts and expand your reach beyond the hidden area.

Harold stepped closer, laying a hand against Hal's shoulder. The wolf's fur was cold beneath his palm, frost clinging faintly even in the warmth of the den.

"Well done," Harold said, his voice steady. "You've grown into more than I could have asked for. And they—" he gestured toward the Ashen Pair, still smoldering faintly with drifting ash, "—they chose the right Alpha."

Hal met his gaze, breath misting in a steady exhale. We've all grown, Harold. But this is only the beginning.

A low rumble of approval passed through the den. Around the walls, lesser wolves stirred, their eyes shining faintly in the dark. The press of their presence was unmistakable — a perimeter of living blades, each ready to leap if danger came.

At the mouth of the den, Holt stood with her shield-bearers, torchlight glinting off the metal rims of their shields. She took in the wolves quietly — the ranks of Tier Twos, the heavier shapes of a few Tier Threes crouched in the shadows. The sheer number of them was enough to make even disciplined soldiers shift their footing.

Holt broke the silence first. "Glad to have them," she said, voice level. "There's a lot of bloodsuckers coming. We'll need every fang and claw that'll fight on our side."

One of her shield-bearers gave a low grunt of agreement, eyes never leaving the nearest wolf.

Harold let out a slow breath. The soldiers and wolves eyed each other warily, but there was no hostility in it. Just recognition. They'd fight the same enemy soon enough.

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