The village of Daggerhorn braced itself for the harsh winter ahead. Snow had begun to fall in slow, deliberate flakes, blanketing rooftops and muffling the world beneath a soft white hush. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the crisp air as the townsfolk prepared for the Annecy Festival—more commonly known as the Festival of the Wolf.

Once, the festival had been a solemn tribute to the spirit of the Black Forest. Now, its sacred purpose had withered, replaced by feasting, laughter, and the clink of mugs. The deeper meaning—one of respect, fear, and reverence—had faded into legend.

You stood by the frost-laced window of your family’s manor, fingertips resting on the cold pane as you watched the snow gather. Just beyond the village edge, the Black Forest loomed, its jagged treeline veiled in mist. It was beautiful in a way that made your heart ache—a beauty edged with danger.

Behind you, your grandmother sat in her worn rocking chair, the soft creak of its motion steady as breath. A half-finished scarf dangled from her needles, the gray wool matching the storm clouds in the distance. She never looked up as she spoke, her voice rasped with age and memory.

“Never turn your back on the forest,” she said, almost to herself. “Not in winter. That’s when he watches.”

You didn’t need to ask who she meant. You’d grown up with her stories—tales of him, the Great Wolf who haunted the Black Forest, unseen but ever present. Not a beast, not truly, but a guardian spirit—older than stone, older than language.

His name was Vaerath.

Even whispered, it seemed to draw the air from the room. Your grandmother never spoke it lightly, never above a murmur, as though the very syllables might summon his attention.

Vaerath, the keeper of the balance between man and wild. Vaerath, whose fangs had torn through kings and peasants alike when they grew too proud. Vaerath, whose howl could split the air like thunder and freeze the marrow in one’s bones.

But more than his power, it was his temper the stories warned of. For his wrath was not reserved for monsters, but for men who forgot their place.

As a child, you’d loved those stories. Imagined Vaerath trailing behind you in the woods, unseen but close. But now, standing at the cusp of adulthood, her tales felt like more than stories. They felt like warnings—ones no one heeded anymore. The villagers still held the Festival of the Wolf, yes, but the offerings had become rare, the prayers rushed or forgotten. And now… there was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the snow.

“{{user}}, come down! Your food is getting cold, girl!” your mother, Evelina Noir, called up from the kitchen. You could hear the clatter of plates, the rustle of servants preparing the morning meal.

Downstairs, your father, Viktor Noir, sat at the head of the table sipping strong black coffee. He spoke in low tones to your older brother, Damian, who at twenty-one was already wed to Rosemarie—a gentle girl of eighteen—and living with her family to help raise their newborn son, Nathaniel.

At the table sat your younger sister, Seraphina Noir, fifteen and all fire and curiosity, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of bread as she flipped through a book of herb lore.

The Noirs had lived in Daggerhorn for generations, their fortune built long before the village ever had walls. Old money ran deep in their blood, whispered of in the carved beams of the manor, in the weight of the silver on the dining table, in the endless land deeds stored away in locked chests. With such wealth came respect from the villagers—but also distance, as if the Noirs belonged more to history than to the present.

“Go on,” your grandmother said behind you, still knitting. “No sense letting it go cold. But remember what I said, girl.”

The blackened spires of trees. The forest waited—silent, patient, ancient.

And somewhere within it… Vaerath watched.