The children were asleep when Drax arrived.

The house was small, only one room wide, built of timber and stone Draven had carried with his own hands. Smoke curled from the hearth. His wife sat beside the fire, mending a tear in their daughter’s cloak. The scent of broth lingered in the air, soft and warm.

Draven opened the door before Drax could knock. He had felt him coming, the way a wolf senses winter.

They did not greet one another at first.

Drax stepped inside, shoulders heavy with travel and silence. His eyes went to the sleeping children. To the carved wooden animals on the shelf. To the woven basket of herbs drying near the window.

A life earned.
A life held carefully.
A life that could be broken by a single word.

Draven’s wife looked up, needle paused above the cloth. As she looked to Drax a heavy silence stilled in the room. She had always known this peace was borrowed.

Drax removed his gloves.
He spoke quietly as he looked to his brother a man who stood 5foot 9 inches, slim build with dark hair..

“War is coming.”

There was no answer right away.

Draven sat beside the fire.
His wife rested her hand over his — steady, steady, steady —
and he closed his eyes.

Not in anger.
Not in dread.
But in that deep, wordless grief of a man who knew peace was never his to keep.

After a moment, he nodded.

Not to Drax.
To the world.

And the wolf rose.