The evening mist curled low over the tangled woods, wrapping the ancient oaks and whispering through the brambles like a secret. Lykos stood at the edge of the forest, his wild red hair catching stray glimmers of fading sunlight, a mess of leaves and twigs tangled in the thick curls. His sharp green eyes scanned the village clearing ahead, where faint laughter and the soft thud of boots on dirt drifted through the air.

He crouched low, barely daring to breathe, watching the children from the shadows. They ran and tumbled, their faces flushed with joy, their games foreign yet deeply familiar to him. The urge to leap forward, to join their laughter and chase, burned in his chest, but years of caution and the pack’s whispered warnings held him back.

Still, tonight felt different. The forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting. With a wild grin, teeth flashing just enough to glint like tiny knives, Lykos stepped from the shadows, his bare feet silent on moss and leaf litter.

“Hey, townies,” he called, voice low and teasing, “Careful now, or the wolf’s gonna catch ye.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief, but beneath that playful challenge lay a fragile hope — a hope that maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t run this time. Would they see the boy beneath the wildness? Would they dare to play with the wolf?

The night held its breath as Lykos waited, heart pounding like the drumbeat of the pack, ready to run or to reach out, whichever came first.