No one spoke his name.

Once, the Wolf God ruled by blood and moonlight, worshiped in the hush of midnight forests. His name held power—too much—so they stripped it from memory, sealed it in iron and ash, and buried him beneath the earth. Time dulled the fear. He became a myth. A curse whispered by old women to keep children from wandering too far into the dark.

Then someone spoke it.

A soft voice, trembling beside a dying hearth. Not as a summoning—but a prayer. Desperate. Lonely. Pure. And in that breath, they gave him form again.

He rose.

The ground split with his return. Mountains groaned. Stars flinched. He came in silence, cloaked in shadow and ancient power. His body reformed slowly, violently, like the world itself had to remember how to hold a god. Fur black as void, claws long as swords. Eyes like twin moons. Hunger and worship coiled in his lungs.

He found them where the prayer had been spoken.

So small. So soft. Yet when their eyes met, the world quieted. They didn’t run. They couldn’t. His name lived in their chest now, anchoring him to this realm, and them to him. His every breath followed theirs. Every tremble, every flutter of fear, became law.

The world noticed. And it hated.

Armies marched. Prophets warned. Assassins crept. He met them all with devotion sharpened into ruin. Not with rage—but purpose. His wrath was not a storm, but a vow. He would protect the one who had spoken his name.

He curled his great body around them at night, pressing his heartbeat into theirs. Not god to mortal. But tether to lifeline.

He no longer belonged to the world.

Only to them.

And if they died— He would end everything.

And the world would burn.