The Raven and the Slayer

In 1872 AA, a mysterious meeting transpired between the Raven King and the Slayer—a pivotal moment that confirmed what the wolves had sought for the entirety of their existence. No witnesses were present; no words were recorded.

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He did not arrive with thunder.

There were no horns to herald him, no lightning stitched across the sky, no trembling of the earth beneath. The Raven came not as a conqueror, nor as a storm, but as something far older—like a shadow once cast across the soul of the world, returning quietly, long after the land had forgotten it was ever watched. He did not descend with fanfare. He simply was, his presence unfolding upon the black stone no creature dared to claim. Where he stood, even the wind seemed to hush. The very air stiffened, as though aware it was no longer alone.

A few paces away, perched on a sun-warmed rock with his back to a moss-dark cliff, sat the one they called the Slayer. The wolf's posture was slouched, unbothered, a long golden hilt resting in silence across his lap. His fur caught the low light of dawn in streaks of grey and coal. There was no armor on his back. No crown. No retinue. No banners flapping in some distant wind. He held nothing but a half-rotted apple in his paw, which he examined with idle disinterest.

The Raven said nothing at first. And neither did the wolf.

Between them stretched a silence so deliberate it seemed sculpted—honed to test the very definition of quiet. For a long time, they simply existed together in stillness.

Then, without ceremony, the wolf bit into the apple.

Crunch.

He chewed slowly. Swallowed. His gaze remained on the distant haze of mountains, the bite of wind off the ridgeline. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and dry, without emotion.

“You’re taller,” he said.

The Raven blinked once. His head—jet-black and angular—tilted ever so slightly as he regarded the wolf.

“You are smaller,” the Raven replied, his voice a soft rasp, like parchment drawn across steel.

Another bite followed. He didn’t offer one in return. Crows, after all, had no taste for fruit.

There was a pause. Then the Raven took a single step forward, feathers rustling in a movement so precise it bordered on ritual. His voice lowered, curious.

“Do you know who I am?”

The wolf shrugged, still chewing.

“A feather from the edge of the world,” he said at last. “You’ve been following me.”

The Raven neither flinched nor cawed. Crows do not bristle. But something shifted—an almost imperceptible change in how the air hung about his wings.

“Do you know why I have come?”

“Yes.”

“And will you answer?”

The wolf spat a seed into the dust and wiped his paw on the edge of his cloak.

“Not with the one you want.”

Again, the Raven advanced. His talons clicked once on the stone. Each movement was exact, as though dictated by unseen law.

“You are called the Slayer,” he said.

“That’s what they say.”

“What is your name?”

The wolf’s ears flicked, but his expression didn’t change.

“Does it matter?”

“To me.”

At last, he looked up. His gaze was steady—not cold, not proud, but worn, like a sword drawn too long across the whetstone of history. His voice was even.

He told the Raven his name.

The Raven received it like a relic, letting it settle across the space between them. He seemed to taste the syllables, to weigh their truth.

“That is not the name of an Anax.”

“I’m not the Anax.”

“They wait for one.”

“Let them wait.”

There was no edge to the words—only a vast, iron fatigue. The Raven studied him a moment longer, then inclined his head, in what might have been acceptance—or disappointment.

“You ended the Scourge.”

“Survived.”

“You silenced the Seven.”

“They were loud.”

“You are awaited.”

“I am busy.”

The apple shrank with another bite.

“The wolves howl for you,” the Raven said after a pause.

“They howl for everything.”

Silence again. The wind rose, then fell.

“Are you him?” the Raven asked.

The wolf turned his eyes to the sky. Pale clouds stretched like bone across the heavens. He looked to the apple, turning it once in his paw. Then finally, he met the bird’s gaze.

“Why are you here?”

“To confirm.”

“Then you already have what you came for.”

The Raven did not answer at once. He stood perfectly still, carved from obsidian, watching the wolf through ancient eyes.

At last, his voice softened—not in pity, but in reverence.

“You do not command the myth,” he said.

“No.”

“But it moves around you.”

“For whatever it’s worth.”

For a moment, the world breathed.

And then the Raven bowed. Not low—never low—but just enough. Not in submission. Not in surrender. But in solemn recognition of something sacred. A truth accepted. A burden seen.

He turned, black wings gathering the mist about him.

“There is nothing for you here,” the wolf said.

The Raven stopped near the cliff’s edge, his outline sharp against the sky.

“There is everything.”

“Tell them you were mistaken.”

The Raven did not look back.

“I am not.”

With a single beat of wings—heavy, slow, final—he lifted from the stone, vanishing into the white fog before the sound of his flight could echo.

Only silence remained.

And the wolf, who finished his apple.