Was peace real?
Or was it just the dream you have
before the nightmare begins?
The darkness was not cold.
It was warm. It smelled of pine needles, of woodsmoke, and the sweet, comforting scent of his mother's baking bread. It was not empty. It was filled with the low, rumbling timbre of a man's voice and the gentle, melodic hum of a woman's song.
This was not the darkness of the grave.
It was the darkness behind a child's closed eyes.
Adrian was six years old.
He was not a ghost. He was not a hunter.
He was a son.
He lay on a thick, soft bearskin rug before a roaring hearth, the fire a living, breathing creature of warmth and light that danced and threw playful shadows on the stone walls of the cottage. His world was small and safe, a hidden valley so deep in the mountains that the rest of the world felt like a myth.
A place his father called "The Sanctuary."
A hand, large and calloused but impossibly gentle, shook his shoulder.
"Wake up, little wolf," the voice rumbled, deeper than the fire's roar. "The sun is high. The world is waiting, and it will not wait forever."
Adrian opened his eyes.
His father, Kazimir Volkov, loomed over him, a smiling mountain of a man. His shoulders were wide enough to block out the sun. His arms were a roadmap of pale, silvery scars, each one telling a story from a life Adrian could not comprehend.
But his eyes, the color of a gathering storm, held no thunder.
Only a deep, quiet, and overwhelming love.
Kazimir lifted him into the air as if he weighed nothing more than a feather.
Adrian laughed, a sound pure and bright, echoing in the rafters of the small cottage. It was the sound of a boy who knew no fear.
He was safe. He was loved.
It was a feeling he would one day forget how to feel.
His mother, Elara, stood by the open doorway, a woven basket resting on her hip. Sunlight streamed in around her, making her seem like a figure from a legend, her silhouette haloed in gold.
Her hair was the color of spun moonlight, braided with the small, white flowers that grew in clusters by the riverbank. She was not a warrior like his father. Her strength was of a different, quieter kind. It was in her gentle hands, which could mend a bird's broken wing, and in her kind, knowing smile, which could mend a boy's broken heart.
"Come, my little wolf," she said, her voice like the chiming of distant bells. "The mountain has lessons for us today. And I think the wild strawberries are ripe."
He spent the morning with her in the high meadows, a place of impossible green and vibrant life under a sky of endless blue.
The sun was warm on his skin. The air was crisp and clean, so different from the city smog he would one day breathe as if it were his birthright.
She did not teach him how to fight.
She taught him how to live.
She showed him which berries were safe to eat, their sweet juices staining his fingers and lips a dark purple. She pointed to the great hawk that circled high overhead, its wings spread wide against the blue.
"That is the mountain's eye, Adrian," she whispered, her voice full of reverence. "It sees everything. It misses nothing. Be like the hawk. See. Understand."
They knelt together in a patch of wildflowers, a riot of color against the green. Her fingers, long and slender, brushed over the petals of one bloom as if greeting an old friend.
"This is Kingsfoil," she said, holding a delicate, star-shaped flower up to the light. "It looks simple, does it not? But this little flower can close a wound that even a knight's prayer cannot."
He looked at it, trying to see the magic she saw.
Then, her expression grew more serious. She pointed to a beautiful, dark purple flower nearby, growing alone, as if shunned by the others. "And this is Wolfsbane. It is beautiful, but it holds death in its heart. Remember this, Adrian. Power is not always loud. It is not always a sword. Sometimes, the quietest things in the world are the most dangerous."
He did not understand then.
He would.
He spent the afternoon with his father.
Kazimir did not teach him how to wield a sword. He said Adrian was too young for the weight of true steel, that a man should not know that weight until he had to.
Instead, he taught him how to control a knife.
They sat on the porch of the cottage, the scent of pine heavy and clean in the air. Kazimir held a block of wood and a small, sharp carving knife.
The same knife Adrian would one day use to sharpen his daggers of vengeance.
"A weapon is a simple thing," Kazimir said, his voice a low growl as he shaved a perfect, thin curl of wood from the block. "It is a tool. No different from a hammer or a shovel. But your hands, your will… that is where the real danger lies."
He placed a smaller block of wood in Adrian's hands.
"Make me a wolf."
Adrian tried. He gripped the knife too tightly, his knuckles white. He hacked at the wood, trying to force it to his will. The blade skittered and slipped. He grew frustrated.
The wood split under his clumsy force. With a cry of anger, he threw it to the ground. "I can't!"
Kazimir said nothing. He simply picked up the broken pieces of wood. He took Adrian's small, trembling hand in his own massive one.
His touch was firm, yet patient. A startling gentleness from a man made of scars and war.
"You let your anger guide the steel," he said quietly. "That is the path to ruin. You do not fight the wood. You feel its heart. You let the blade follow the grain. You control your strength, little wolf. You guide the blade. It does not guide you."
Together, they started again on a new block. The wolf that emerged was clumsy, misshapen, its legs uneven and its head too big.
But it was his.
He had created something, not destroyed it.
It was a lesson he would spend a lifetime unlearning.
That evening, as the first stars began to appear, bright and cold in the clear mountain sky, Kazimir called him over.
The greatsword, a monstrous thing of dark, heavy iron, leaned against the wall by the hearth. It was a silent, sleeping beast. A promise of violence. Adrian was never allowed to touch it.
But his father did not reach for the sword.
He reached for a worn leather cord around his own neck. On it hung a single, large, yellowed tooth.
A wolf's fang.
"Your grandfather gave this to me when I was a boy," Kazimir said, his voice softer than Adrian had ever heard it. "He told me it would protect me from monsters."
He lifted the heavy cord over his head. The firelight glinted on the smooth, polished enamel of the fang.
"He was wrong," Kazimir said, his gaze intense. "A charm cannot protect you from the world. Only strength can do that. Your strength."
He paused, looking at his son, his stormy eyes filled with a fierce, protective light.
"But it can protect you from yourself."
He looped the cord around Adrian's neck. The tooth was heavy, a solid weight against his small chest. It felt cool against his skin.
"There is a wolf inside you, Adrian. My blood runs in your veins. It is a blood of rage, of fire, of war. It is a good servant, but a terrible master. It will give you great strength. But it will demand a terrible price if left unchecked."
He placed a heavy hand on Adrian's shoulder, his grip firm and grounding.
"This fang is a reminder. You are a boy, but you are also a wolf. Control it. Do not let it control you. Be a man, not a monster."
Later that night, Adrian fell asleep on the bearskin rug, curled up in the space between his parents.
The fire was a warm, crackling presence. The world was small and safe.
His mother's song was a soft hum in the quiet room. His father's hand rested on his back, a silent, unbreachable wall against all the monsters in the world.
He clutched the wolf fang in his small hand, its solid weight a comfort.
He was safe. He was loved. He was home.
It was a perfect moment.
And all perfect moments are meant to be broken.