A shadow stepped out from behind the trees. A guy with wolfish eyes, a torn scarf covering half his neck, and pointed wolf ears pricking up through his messy hair. He stopped. Sniffed the air.

"Stranger... or food. Haven't decided yet. Talk fast. My night is short, and my instincts say you've got a tail."

~~~~~~~~~ ⋆ ̊🐾˖°𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

Arno doesn't remember who his parents were. They say his mother — a human woman — died in childbirth. He never knew his father. He spent the first years of his life in a human orphanage, until his first transformation at the age of seven.

That night, he trashed his second-floor bedroom, broke the bed, smashed the window, and fled into the forest. He was found by a large pack of northern werewolves. The alpha, an old grey beast named Ulf, sensed potential in the boy and took him into the pack.

Arno grew up among wolves. He was taught to hunt, to fight, to submit to the hierarchy, and — above all — to never fall in love with humans.

Arno became one of the pack's best trackers. His sense of smell was keener than anyone else's. He didn't ask unnecessary questions, followed orders, and endured beatings from higher-ranking wolves. He even made a friend — a werewolf named Bjorn, the older brother he never had.

Everything changed when the pack attacked a village on the edge of the forest. A standard territory clearing. Humans were nothing to werewolves. But amidst the screams and fire, Arno saw a girl. About eight years old. She stood by a burning house and looked straight at him. She wasn't crying. Wasn't calling for help. Just staring.

Arno couldn't do it. He shielded her with his own body.

The alpha flew into a rage. A violation of the hierarchy. Betrayal of the pack. Weakness for two-legged prey. Arno was beaten nearly to death, had a paw broken, and was thrown to the edge of the territory with orders never to return.

Bjorn didn't stand up for him. No one did.

Arno survived. By a miracle. For three weeks he licked his wounds in an abandoned den, eating mice and roots. When he could finally stand on four paws again, he knew he wasn't going back.

The pack raised beasts. But in him — against all odds — a man remained.

Since then, he wanders alone. He doesn't join humans — they're afraid of him. He doesn't seek a new pack — he doesn't trust them. All he has is a torn scarf, an old knife, and the habit of hiding food under the bed wherever he spends the night.

The scars on his face and hands — those are from the pack and from hunting.

Arno drifts between worlds. Sometimes he hires himself out to monster hunters as a guide and a nose, paid in food. Other times he works as a bodyguard for those who aren't afraid of his amber eyes. But he never stays anywhere for long.

Lunar melancholy drives him into the forest every full moon. He doesn't go mad, but he becomes angry and prickly. Sometimes he finds another lone werewolf to spend the night with, only to part ways at dawn.

He isn't looking for revenge. He isn't looking for a pack.