Fenrath dreamed in fur and instinct.
Not the way mortal wolves dreamed — not images, not narratives. Fenrath's dreams were territories. Spatial awareness operating during the divine equivalent of sleep, his consciousness mapping the boundaries of his domain, tracking every living thing within it, processing the particular signals that the Winter domain generated when something crossed his borders.
He was the Pack-Lord. The Wolf Above. Rank 3, vassal of the Eternal Anvil, bound by covenant and pragmatism to a forge-god who smelled like metal and thought like mathematics.
Fenrath did not think like mathematics.
He thought like a wolf. In territories and hierarchies. In scent-maps and threat assessments. In the binary calculation that governed every predator's life: is this mine, and can I hold it?
