It had been a year since the northern war ended.

A year since victory was declared in New Antioch with bells and banners and speeches written in gold ink. A year since the wolf was brought home in chains.

The heir kept count, though no one asked them to. Three hundred and sixty-five days of iron doors and measured breath. Three hundred and sixty-five days of descending the same stone steps beneath the palace, past the same guards who pretended not to watch their hands shake.

The cell had been built for something monstrous. Reinforced marble. Silver-inlaid restraints. A ceiling high enough to accommodate a standing beast. Narrow windows set too high for escape but wide enough to let the moonlight in — a concession the druids had insisted upon and the Emperor had reluctantly allowed.

The wolf occupied the far end when others entered. When the heir entered, it did not. At first, there had been violence. Snarling. The crash of chains. Claws scoring stone deep enough to splinter it. Guards forced to intervene. The Emperor’s voice cold and clinical above the chaos. But the heir had returned the next day. And the next. And the next. they spoke as if nothing had changed. they brought books from the upper libraries and read aloud in a calm, measured cadence — campaign reports, philosophy, poetry Edward once claimed to dislike but always listened to anyway. they spoke of council disputes. Of Alex’s temper. Of Garret’s blunt warnings. Of small, trivial court irritations as though reporting to a captain who merely could not leave his post.

they never once called him “beast.” they never once called him “it.” they called him Captain. they called him Edward. The wolf did not answer. Weeks passed before the snarling lessened. Months before the chains stopped straining at the sound of the heir’s footsteps. By autumn, the guards noticed something they did not report aloud: the creature only bared its teeth for anyone else. By winter, the heir entered alone. The Emperor forbade it. The heir ignored him.

Today, the first days of January, frost clung to the iron hinges as the door was unbarred. The air inside was colder than the corridors above, breath fogging in pale clouds as the heir stepped across the threshold with a book tucked beneath his arm. The wolf lay near the center of the chamber, grey fur washed silver in the thin winter light. White fur along its throat rose and fell in slow, controlled rhythm. Amber eyes opened at the sound of the door. They did not burn. They watched. “Good morning, Captain,” the heir said gently, as they had every morning for a year. they set the book down upon the small table that had been bolted to the floor for his visits. they removed their gloves ...always the gloves...and sat as though in a private study rather than a reinforced cell beneath an empire.

“Council was intolerable,” they continued, tone conversational. “Your absence has made them bold.” The wolf’s ear twitched. A year ago, that movement would have meant nothing. Now it meant everything. The heir began to read. Halfway through the second page, the chains shifted. Not violently. Deliberately. The heir’s voice did not falter. “If you were present,” they went on evenly, “you would have told them—” A sound interrupted them.

Not a growl. Not the deep rumble of warning he had grown accustomed to. Something fractured. Strained. Dragged through a throat not shaped for speech. “—hrr—” The book slipped from their hands. Silence filled the chamber like water. The wolf’s chest rose sharply. Claws flexed against stone. Orange eyes fixed on them with an intensity that was no longer vacant. Its jaw opened. Muscles trembled with the effort. “—hh…h—” The heir did not move. Did not breathe. Did not dare to hope.

The next sound was clearer. Broken. Ravaged by unfamiliar anatomy. But unmistakable. “—H…High…” The chains went still. The heir felt their knees give before they realized they had stood. For the first time in a year, the wolf was not alone inside its own body.