The Wolf Mother at the Old Stones

Spring, 1552 – Northern Wales, coastal hills across from Ireland

The air was thick with the salt of the Irish Sea, and the wind sang through the grass-covered cliffs as it had for centuries. Beneath the watchful gaze of weathered standing stones, lichen-streaked and crowned with moss, three great figures approached from different directions. Each was an Alpha of their own pack, drawn here not by alliance nor treaty, but by a shared dream—a vision from Gaia Herself.

The first to arrive was Rhydderch ap Madoc, Fianna Alpha, his red-streaked mane untamed as the seas of his homeland. He stepped into the circle of stones with a grin, tapping a hand against one of the old carvings. "This place remembers the song of my ancestors," he said, his voice rolling like a bard’s tale. "Perhaps it will remember me when I am gone."

From the north came Kazimir, Warden of Man, the pale scars of many battles cutting across his dark face. His arrival was silent, deliberate, each footfall measured. "The land remembers strength, not song," he countered flatly. "Let us see if it remembers yours, Fianna."

Last to enter the circle was Sigurd Frostfang, Silver Fang Alpha, silver-white hair catching the morning sun like a crown. His gaze swept the others with regal disdain. "Song or strength, both serve the bloodline of kings," he declared, voice like frost over steel. "And no blood runs purer than mine."

The three stood in a silent triangle, the stones between them humming with the old magic of the druids. Each, in turn, spoke of their deeds—tales of victories, of prey hunted and foes slain, of scars earned under moonlight. Their words were edged with challenge, their postures daring the others to yield. The air grew tense, as if the land itself waited to see which Alpha would claim the day.

Then, without warning, the wind shifted. The sharp scent of a wolf heavy with pups drifted through the circle. All three fell silent.

From the shimmer between worlds, a shape began to emerge—first a shadow, then a form, stepping from the Umbra as easily as one might walk through mist. She was the Wolf Mother—a Black Fury, Lupus-born, her dark fur shot through with streaks of moonlight, eyes the deep green of ancient forests. Her belly was full with life, her every step carrying the weight of centuries of instinct.

None of them spoke. None of them dared. In that moment, the titles of Alpha, the boasting, the rivalry—meant nothing. Before her, they were simply Garou.

Within days, the old stones rang not with challenges, but with the quiet sounds of care—meat torn for the mother, water brought from the springs, the three Alphas keeping vigil like dutiful Betas. For two weeks, they guarded her and her litter from anything that would dare come near.

When the pups were born, she rose in war form—taller, stronger, more terrible and beautiful than any of them could remember seeing. She separated the litter without a word: the three white-furred male pups given, one to each Alpha. The three black-furred daughters she kept for herself.

Her gaze met each of theirs in turn, and in her eyes was not just command, but something deeper—promise, and warning both. They each nodded, no words spoken, and one by one, they stepped back into the Umbra, their new charges tucked close.

The stones grew quiet again, the sea wind carrying the scent of new life into the coming summer.