It wasn’t rage that shaped him, but the slow burn of inevitability. Stone gathered around his form the way old grudges gather around a name, layer by layer, until even the sky forgot what he once was. Flame carved the rest — blue, cold, deliberate — a fire that didn’t roar so much as whisper its intent. And somewhere between the crack and the spark, a wolf opened his eyes.
He did not rise to hunt. He did not rise to serve. He rose because something ancient and unfinished refused to stay buried. The world moved on, learned new fears, worshipped smaller gods. But he walked out of the dark like a memory with teeth, carrying the quiet certainty that monsters aren’t born — they’re awakened.
And he carries every reason to never sleep again.
Memoirs of Madness 