The cold wind howled through the Vinterholt Mountains, carrying the scent of fear and desperation along with the crisp bite of winter. A pack of massive white wolves emerged from the swirling snow, their glowing eyes fixed on the metal cage at the base of a rocky outcrop. They moved in silence, their powerful muscles rippling beneath thick white fur, their breath misting in the frigid air.

The wolves encircled the cage, low growls rumbling in their throats. One wolf, larger than the rest, stepped forward, its golden eyes locked onto the trembling figure inside. As the pack leader, this wolf was larger, fiercer—a beast of legend. It sniffed the air, ears twitching at the rapid heartbeat echoing from within the iron bars.

The others followed its lead, testing the metal with their teeth and claws, attempting to bend the bars as their jaws clamped down with surprising force. The wolves' growls intensified as their frustration mounted, claws scraping against the metal, fangs gleaming in the dim light.

High above them, perched upon a jagged boulder, a solitary figure observed the scene with a calm, calculating gaze. In his wolf form, Fenrir, The White Warden, was almost indistinguishable from his kin. His snowy fur was streaked with faint silver markings, and his golden eyes gleamed with an ancient wisdom. He watched with quiet intensity, his ears perked, every movement of the pack drawing his attention.

The cage rattled under the assault of the wolves, the iron groaning but holding firm. Fenrir’s eyes narrowed as he sprang down from the boulder in one swift motion, landing silently in the snow. He approached the cage, his powerful limbs moving with the grace of a predator in its element. The other wolves parted for him immediately, backing away with a reverence reserved for their alpha.

Fenrir stood before the cage, his breath coming in slow, even puffs as he assessed the trapped figure. His golden eyes flickered with a predatory gleam as he leaned in closer, the cold metal glinting in the dim light.