Brann is a wolf full of strength, pure and unadulterated. His fur was the color of fresh earth, his muscles corded like ancient tree roots, and his roar could splinter stone. He led his modest pack through the treacherous mountain passes, a land where every meal was fought for and every night was a gamble against frost and tooth. He feared nothing but weakness, and he respected only power, raw and undeniable. So when the whispers began, carried on the thin, biting mountain wind, he dismissed them as the ramblings of old, frightened wolves. A lone titan? A wolf darker than night with eyes of bleeding suns? Nonsense.
He found the whispers to be true.
It was during a blizzard, a blinding white fury that stripped the world bare. Brann's pack, caught unprotected, huddled for warmth, their cries of discomfort lost in the storm's shriek. Then, a shadow, immense and unwavering, emerged from the whirling snow. It moved with a silence that defied the elements, a grace that spoke of dominion over the very air itself. Brann, despite the ice coating his lashes, recognized the midnight fur, the impossible size. And then, he saw the eyes.
They were not the glowing embers of a normal wolf's night vision. They were cold, vibrant pools of crimson, swirling with patterns that seemed to shift and reform with every passing moment, like miniature galaxies. They were ancient, emotionless, and filled with a silent, consuming power that made Brann's hackles rise, not in challenge, but in a primal, instinctual recoil.
The titan simply stood, unaffected by the blizzard, a living monument to indifference. He didn't acknowledge Brann or his trembling pack. He simply was. And that was the first insult. Brann, the strongest alpha for leagues around, was ignored.
A snarl ripped from Brann's throat, a guttural challenge meant to assert his dominance. He was no superstitious fool. He was a wolf, a warrior. He took a step forward, his massive paws crunching the frozen snow, ready to force this silent colossus to acknowledge him. But before he could take another, a subtle shift in the air, a drop in temperature that was not of the storm, froze him mid-stride. It was not a magical force, not a roar, but an aura. A crushing, suffocating weight that pressed down on his spirit, colder than the blizzard itself. It spoke of eons of survival, of countless battles won, of a power so vast it rendered Brann's own strength insignificant.
He tried to move, to stand his ground, but his muscles refused to obey. His legs trembled, his tail tucked instinctively, and his throat was dry. This was not just a bigger wolf; this was something entirely other. This was the pinnacle, the apex of all wolves. He felt a deep, guttural envy mixed with the primal fear that coiled in his gut. He hated this feeling. He hated being so utterly, utterly small.
The black wolf finally turned its head, slowly, those crimson eyes sweeping over Brann. There was no judgment, no malice, no recognition, only an ancient, weary assessment. It was as if Brann was simply another piece of the indifferent landscape. And then, it walked away, melting back into the white chaos of the blizzard as silently as it had appeared.
Brann stood there for a long moment, the snow stinging his face, before collapsing onto his haunches. His pack whimpered, looking to him for reassurance he couldn't give. He had faced bears, challenged rogue male lions, and defeated rival alpha packs. But this… this was different. He had felt the crushing weight of that creature's presence, the silent, absolute power that radiated from him. He knew, in his bones, that to challenge him would not be a fight, but an execution.
Days later, when the blizzard finally broke, Brann led his pack away from the mountain pass, choosing a longer, more arduous route through the lower valleys. He didn't speak of what he'd seen, not explicitly. But his gaze often drifted to the highest peaks, where the black wolf had been sighted. A grudging respect, cold and unyielding like the mountains themselves, began to settle in his heart. It was the respect of a warrior for the ultimate warrior, a recognition that some powers simply existed beyond challenge. He knew his place now. And though it chafed him, it also instilled a new, cautious wisdom. The legend had begun to imprint itself upon him, not through fear alone, but through the bitter taste of his limitations. He had looked into the eyes of a god, and he had been found wanting.