Hawthorn

Hawthorn was born under a high sun, when the world feels invincible and everything grows fast and wild. From the start, he was thorn and bloom both—sharp-witted, golden-eyed, and charming in a way that made others forget he was also dangerous. His birth-pack was strong, but bound by strict traditions that didn't suit his restless spirit. Hawthorn wanted freedom, not hierarchy. So, he left—by choice, not exile—and walked the land until the heat gave way to wind, and the scent of something different pulled him north.

When he found the Windtooth Pack, it wasn't a meeting—it was a collision. Woodworm didn't trust him. Mugwort studied him. Fern watched him vanish into the woods and reappear two steps behind her. He made no claims. He simply stayed, earning his place with action, not ego. When the pack was tested by a territorial rogue band, it was Hawthorn who stood guard through the night, bleeding and grinning, until the danger passed.

Now, he is the fire in the flint of Windtooth—a rare, unpredictable energy that keeps things alive and lit. He jokes often and fights fiercely, loyal not to the idea of leadership but to the wolves who proved themselves worthy of it.

He is the last to arrive, but not the least. And though summer is in his blood, there is winter in his teeth when it's needed.