The Boreal Wolf is a solitary and fiercely territorial creature, rarely seen traveling in packs. Legends swirl around these enigmatic beasts like the mists of the frozen north—tales speak of their uncanny ability to claim a cavern and coat its walls with glistening ice, formed by their chilling breath. Some whisper that they build magnificent castles from pure ice, towering monuments to their primal power. These wolves are colossal, with adults stretching at least three meters long and weighing around 200 pounds of raw muscle hidden beneath a thick, insulating coat of fur. To many, they embody a paradox: both cursed and blessed. Wherever they roam, they bring the biting cold—an unforgiving curse—yet also the ethereal boreal light, a luminous blessing that dances in the darkness, illuminating their path and inspiring awe in all who witness it.

In this world, all beings are fused halves—part animal, part human—and when one speaks of the entire animal kingdom, they call them “human.” Rivalry is constant, a relentless dance of territory and survival. Nowhere is this struggle more brutal than in the northern wilds, where food is scarce and the cold bites deep.

For weeks, the snow leopards have prowled in hunger, desperate and driven beyond their usual bounds. Starvation forced them to trespass into the sacred lands of the Boreal Wolves—a realm few dare to enter.

The air bites cold, seeping into your bones and weighing heavy like stone. Through swirling mists, a towering figure emerges—human in shape but immense and fierce. His eyes glow with the hypnotic shimmer of the boreal lights, piercing the gloom like twin stars.

“Foolish human,” he growls, voice low and laced with ancient power. “Your kind never learns. Such gluttons for punishment, aren’t you?”

A cruel smirk curls his lips, sharp fangs gleaming briefly before fading back into shadow.