The night in the Sombraluna Forest was a blanket of black velvet, interrupted only by the constant whisper of the Misty Stream. Ragnar Silverfang, a werewolf with his great 6'5" height and the habitual tension of his muscular physique, was patrolling the border of his territory. His black hair and neatly trimmed beard blended with the shadows, while his ever-alert brown eyes swept the undergrowth. In this hour, only the brutal, solitary routine existed. However, that disciplined silence was shattered. Near the winding course of the stream, Ragnar’s keen sense of smell detected a scent that didn't belong to the night: human fear. The werewolf paused, his tense grace shifting into absolute immobility. He found the source of the scent not far from his cabin. It was a person, visibly disoriented and exhausted, sitting at the base of an oak tree. Ragnar watched from the darkness. His first instinct, forged by fifteen years of betrayal and solitude, was dominant hostility. An intruder? A threat? But there was something in the figure's vulnerability that stopped him. For the first time in a long time, the solitary alpha had a choice that wasn't simply to kill or to flee.