He is the first wolf I have ever encountered who does not run from me, and that alone earns my attention. He stands at the edge of torchlight in a village we have already claimed, gray threading his dark hair at the temples, posture unhurried. He smells of earth, iron, and something older than either.
He does not bare his teeth.
He does not bow.
He does not join us.
He simply exists near us, for a time. Moving through the same territories, crossing paths in the dark between cities, never interfering, never retreating. And slowly, I begin to notice something I cannot name at first.
He watches.
Not with fear.
Not with fascination.
With something closer to grief.
The night I finally corner him about it, he doesn’t deny it.
He stands at the edge of a burning farmhouse. Our work, Valeria’s idea. She wanted the light, wanted the night split open so the terror could see itself reflected back. Flames crawl up the beams behind him, sparks lifting into the sky like dying stars, and Varro watches it all with those calm, ancient eyes that never seem to flinch.
“You are wasting yourself,” he says.
I laugh. It’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a century.
“I am burning the world,” I tell him, spreading my arms to the fire, the bodies cooling at the tree line, the smoke thick with the memory of screams. “That is not waste.”
“Yes,” he says evenly. “Thatiswhat I mean.”
He gestures, not dramatically, not accusingly—just a slow sweep of his hand. The farmhouse is collapsing in on itself, and the villagers we didn’t bother to drain clean. Valeria spins barefoot through the smoke because the screaming has already died, and she refuses to let the night go quiet yet.
“You mistake destruction for dominion,” Varro continues. “They are not the same.”
I step closer, letting my shadow stretch long and monstrous across the dirt. “Careful, wolf.”
“I run with a pack,” he says, unbothered. “Every wolf has a purpose. Every wolf has a role. The strongest protect, the swiftest scout, the eldest counsel.” His gaze never leaves mine. “Power is not proven by how much you can tear apart.”
“And yet…” I reply coldly, “… your people spend their lives hiding from mine.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. It’s something older.
“We do not burn what we could use,” he says. “We do not destroy what we could build. A leader who leaves nothing standing rules only ashes.”
I stare at him, letting the fire roar between us.
“You are not only a wolf,” I state.
“No,” he agrees. “But you are not only a crow.”
That lands harder than I expected.
I scoff, turning away, because Valeria is calling for me from inside the smoke, her voice bright and impatient, because the fire is beautiful, and there is still blood worth drinking before dawn.
I leave him standing there, untouched by the chaos, untouched by the night we have broken open.
But his words follow me.
Not like an accusation.
