04 Silverfang and the Star Hunters

Greymuzzle lowered his head in reverence and recounted the story of Silverfang, in hushed tones of honourable respect:

"Long ago, beneath a sky as vast and clear as the one that stretched above the forest tonight, there lived a wolf known throughout the wilds for his strength, wisdom, and coat that gleamed like moonlit frost. His name was Silverfang, and to every creature of the wood, he was more than just a leader—he was a protector, a guide, and a symbol of endurance during the harshest winters.

Silverfang led with both compassion and certainty. His pack thrived under his watchful gaze, moving in silent harmony through the forests. They followed trails known only to wolves, passed down through instinct and memory. On nights when the full moon lit their path, the pack would gather in clearings, ears turned skyward, listening to the silent language of the stars.

To Silverfang, the stars were not just distant fires in the sky. He believed they carried messages—glimmers of wisdom from the ancestors, signs from the Moon Mother herself. He taught his pack to read their movements, to find reassurance and guidance in their slow, shimmering dance across the heavens.

One night, as the pack rested on a gentle hill, bathed in moonlight, Silverfang noticed something strange. A brilliant light—unlike any star—glided across the sky, steady and slow. It pulsed with a quiet intensity, drawing the old wolf’s gaze.

“This light is a sign,” he told the pack. “Not like any we have known. The Moon Mother speaks through it. We must follow.”

Some of the younger wolves hesitated. The path ahead was unknown, and the forest could be cruel to those who wandered without caution. But Silverfang’s certainty was unwavering, and the pack trusted him. Together, they set out—through deep, whispering woods where the trees loomed like ancient sentries, across rivers that roared beneath starlight, and into lands where even the bravest of creatures seldom tread.

The journey was long. Hunger gnawed at their bellies. Cold clung to their bones. Doubt crept in quietly, testing their resolve. But Silverfang never faltered. His stride remained sure, his eyes fixed on the sky. The strange light continued its slow arc across the heavens, and he followed it with the devotion of one who believed.

Eventually, the pack came to a towering mountain. Its slopes were steep and treacherous, the wind screaming through narrow passes. But Silverfang pressed on, and the others followed. Near the summit, the strange light stopped—hovering above a wide, open clearing. It bathed the land in a glow that shimmered like snowfall, illuminating Silverfang’s silver coat with ethereal brilliance.

He lifted his head and howled.

It was a long, haunting sound—not of warning, nor of pride, but of reverence. A call to something far older than any wolf who walked the earth.

The light responded.

It descended, spiralling into a shape—glowing, shifting, unmistakably wolf-like. Its body shimmered with stardust, its eyes glowed with the knowledge of countless ages. The pack stood frozen, chests heaving, watching as the celestial figure stepped forward.

This was Lupus, the guardian of the stars.

“You, Silverfang,” the being said, “have shown great courage. You and your pack have followed the light with faith. For this, I grant you the knowledge of the Star Hunters—the wolves who run among the stars and watch over your kind.”

The pack bowed their heads. Not out of fear, but out of deep, instinctive respect.

Lupus spoke of the Star Hunters, the ancient ones who had passed into the sky and became part of its light. Their spirits had not left the world. Instead, they ran above it, guiding the wolves below, watching every trail, every hunt, every challenge. When wolves howled beneath the full moon, it was the Star Hunters who listened—and answered, in whispers of starlight.

When Lupus’s tale ended, the clearing dimmed. The guardian faded back into the sky, leaving behind only silence and a lingering warmth in the cold mountain air.

Silverfang and his pack descended in silence, each of them changed. They carried with them more than memories—they carried the burden and blessing of understanding. They knew now that their lives were part of a much larger circle. That death was not an ending. That the stars above were filled with the spirits of those who had come before.

And so, when they returned to the forest, they began a new tradition. On the night of each full moon, the pack would gather and lift their voices in unison. Not for sorrow. Not for fear. But for remembrance. For connection.

It became known as The Howling—a sacred ceremony to honour the celestial ancestors and the path Silverfang had revealed.

From that day forward, the stars above were no longer distant. They were family.

And every time a young wolf lifted its muzzle to the night sky and sang, somewhere—far above—another voice answered."

The two young boys understood—perhaps not with words, but with the quiet certainty that lives in the marrow of the bones—that they, too, were becoming part of something greater than themselves. A lineage that stretched back to the stars. A rhythm older than the trees. The story was not just about wolves. It was about identity. Belonging. Purpose.

And so, each night beneath the open sky, the boys listened as Greymuzzle passed down the stories of their new world. Tales of moonlight and loyalty, of courage and wildness. With every word, the boys were drawn deeper into the tapestry of the forest, bound not by blood, but by the echo of a thousand howls and the truth of a shared myth.

They were no longer just survivors.

They were becoming wolves.