Beorn is splitting wood when we step into the clearing.

The axe comes down in clean, brutal strokes, each one biting deep into the log beneath it. The sound carries—wood cracking, iron striking, strength measured and unapologetic. He does not look up at first. He does not need to.

Gandalf emerges ahead of us, Bilbo close at his side. The wizard lifts a hand in greeting as though approaching an equal rather than a man who looks capable of tearing the world apart with his bare hands.

“Beorn,” Gandalf says.

The axe stops.

Beorn straightens slowly and turns, his gaze sweeping past Gandalf, past the hobbit—until it lands on us.

Dwarves.

The air tightens at once. His grip on the axe shifts, not threatening, but honest. Unpleased. The Company fans out instinctively behind Gandalf, boots crunching softly against the earth.

“So,” Beorn says flatly. “You’ve brought them.”

Introductions are made, strained and careful. Names pass between us without warmth. I watch Beorn’s face as he listens, the way his jaw sets harder with each one. This is not a welcome.

Then the forest changes.

It is not a sound that reaches me first, but the feeling of being weighed and measured. The hair along my arms prickles. Somewhere behind us, a branch bends. Another follows.

The Company feels it.

Someone shifts. Someone else swears under their breath.

From between the trees, white moves.

She steps into the clearing like a living storm held perfectly still.

The wolf is enormous—larger than any warg I have ever seen, shoulders rising high and powerful, her body long and built for endurance rather than frenzy. Her fur is pure white, thick and heavy, catching the light as she moves. Scars lie half-hidden beneath it, earned rather than decorative.

Silver eyes sweep the clearing with cold intelligence.

Weapons half-rise around me before sense catches up.

“That’s a—” Kíli breathes. “That’s a giant wolf.”

The wolf circles us.

Not rushed. Not aggressive.

Measured.

Each step is deliberate, paws sinking into the earth with quiet authority. She passes close enough that I can see the tension in her muscles, the way her breath fogs the air. When she turns her head, her lips peel back just enough to bare her teeth—not a snarl, but a promise.

The Company breaks.

“By Durin—”

“That thing’s bigger than a warg.”

“Is it… is it watching us?”

“Lower your weapons—no, don’t—don’t—”

“Gandalf?”

Voices overlap, sharp and unsteady. Someone laughs once, breathless and wrong. Another mutters a prayer under his breath. Steel scrapes as a blade is half-drawn, then frozen in place. No one seems certain whether moving would be worse than standing still. Several step back outright. Others grip their weapons harder. I hear fear ripple through them, sharp and unguarded.

Gandalf alone does not move.

“I was under the impression,” he says carefully, eyes fixed on the wolf, “that there was only one skin-changer in these lands.”

Beorn snorts, resting the axe head against the ground.

“I do not speak of her for everyone,” he says. “They expect the bear… and never see the Dire Wolf in the trees.”

The wolf stops.

She comes to stand beside Beorn, close enough that her massive shoulder nearly brushes his leg. She is still now, towering, watchful, every inch of her coiled and ready.

“This is my daughter,” Beorn says.

"Ēostlīc"

The name settles over the clearing like a held breath.

The wolf bares her teeth fully then, a silent display that draws a collective step back from the Company. Her silver gaze lifts—briefly, uncomfortably—before moving on.

I realize, distantly, that my hand has not moved from my side.

I have faced dragons.

I have stood before armies.

This is different.

This is the wild made visible—and it is watching us.