Alarun Azrael

"The Rise of Alarun Azrael"
Told in the hush of the Thalun Moon, when spirits walk close to the living.

"Gather close, thornlings… listen well.

Long ago, beneath the waning light of Thalun, a pup was born beneath the Nest of New Moons. His name was Azrael, though the wind already whispered of his fire. His mother, gentle as leaf-fall, nudged him awake one morning. The den was quiet, the air too still. He rose, blinking, and followed her into the gray dawn.

There, by the Veil of Paths, she left him.

Two Shivren stood in wait—silent, grim-eyed. One gave a nod, and the she-wolf turned away, her gaze heavy with sorrow. Azrael tried to follow, but jaws found his scruff. He squirmed, yipping softly, as he was carried away from all he knew. The spirit-bonds were cut that day.

Seasons passed.

Azrael grew under foreign skies, trained as a Korran, swift of fang and silent of foot. One dusk, he returned from a great hunt, the blood of a fallen bull elk dark on his coat. The pack gathered at the Heartstone, voices high with praise.

Then silence.

A stranger approached beside the Alarun, and with eyes cold as riverstone, the command was given.

'Azrael… gather your things. You shall walk with this wolf now.'

He stared. The wind stilled. Rage flared in his chest.

'You're trading me?'

The Alarun said nothing more, only pointed toward his den. Azrael snarled, pushed past. 'Fine. I don't need this broken pack.'

But he had no intent to follow.

That night, beneath the crooked boughs of Elaroak, he vanished. He rolled in mud at Elunmere, masking his scent, and fled beneath the moons. No soul watched his path.

Two moons later, thin as shadow, he collapsed in a clearing. He was still only a thornling, not yet full-fanged. Hunger gnawed his bones. Then a voice drifted like morning fog.

'Peace, child. I bring no harm.'

A wolf stepped from the brush. Her fur shimmered like mistlight, and her voice carried the rhythm of Vaelish tongue. Her name was Cloud, a wanderer of soft step.

'I know a place,' she said. 'Our Alarun was once like you—lost and alone. Come. Rest.'

And so he followed.

The pack welcomed him, led by a wolf named Cupid, heart full and wisdom deep. Under Cupid's guidance, Azrael found roots again. He learned the rites, the ways of Vaelish—not just in tongue, but in soul. He became a shadow among trees, a fire beneath stars.

Seasons turned once more.

Cupid, old and gray-fanged, stood beneath the Torwyn, and spoke:

'Azrael. You are the new flame. You shall carry the howl beyond this age. You are Alarun, Guiding Flame.'

And so he rose—not born to the title, but forged by fang, fire, and fate.

Azrael, the stray pup once cast aside, became the voice of the pack, the keeper of Vaelish, and the soul of the forest's howl."