03 The Boys Meet Greymuzzle

At the heart of the forest, in the world the boys had come to call home, lived Greymuzzle—the elder wolf, whose thick fur was a mottled blend of silver and shadow. Time had dulled his limbs and clouded his eyes, but none could doubt the depth of wisdom he carried. His presence was steady, like the roots of the oldest trees. To the boys, he became something more than a guardian. He became a teacher.

Greymuzzle had been the first of the forest wolves to accept the boys fully. While the others watched with caution, he had approached them without fear, brushing their small shoulders with his muzzle, then settling beside them as if he had known them long before they were born. His movements were slow, deliberate. He seldom spoke during the day, content to observe in silence. But at night, when the forest hushed and the stars burned clear overhead, his voice would rise like wind through the trees—low and steady, filled with memory.

Each evening, when the moon crested the treetops and the rest of the pack curled close to sleep, Greymuzzle would gather the boys beside him. They nestled against his side, the older boy always slightly protective, the younger curled in close, eyes wide with anticipation.

"Listen," Greymuzzle would say, in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. "We wolves are not just creatures of the forest. We are keepers of stories—tales passed down from when the world was still young. Tonight, you will learn of Silverfang, the greatest of us all."

The boys held their breath, their eyes shining in the moonlight.

Silverfang, Greymuzzle told them, was a wolf whose coat shone as if dusted with frost—gleaming like metal under the moon’s gaze. He was born beneath the brightest full moon the ancestors could recall. From that moment, he had been marked by the Moon Mother herself.

Greymuzzle’s words were steady, rhythmic, as if he recited not from memory but from instinct. He spoke of Silverfang’s uncanny ability to read the heavens, how he could sense storms before they broke and track prey even through mist. He led his pack with strength and grace, never faltering, even in the hardest winters.

One night, long ago, a strange light had passed through the sky. Not a star, Greymuzzle explained, but something older and more mysterious. Silverfang had seen it and knew it was a sign. Guided by that celestial spark, he led his pack on a journey—beyond the rivers, beyond the mountains, to a place wolves had never tread. And though some were lost, and many were afraid, they followed him, because they believed.

As Greymuzzle spoke, the boys leaned in, drawn not just by the story, but by what it stirred within them. They were not just hearing history. They were being woven into it.