The gates of Stormbane Citadel groaned open as the war horns faded into the cold dusk air. Aria rode at the head of the column, her armor still streaked with soot and blood. Behind her stretched ranks of battered but triumphant warriors, their howls rising like thunder to the night sky.

    The West had imed another victory. The Northern and Southern Packsy shattered, their armies. broken across the fields. And at the very front of the carnage had been Aria–the White Wolf whose legend now spread farther than any battle standard.

    As she dismounted, the courtyard erupted. Wolves pounded their chests, warriors bowed low, and the chant rose again and again:

    “The White Wolf!”

    “Stormbane’s champion!”

    “Aria the Unyielding!”

    Aria’s boots struck stone as she walked through the corridor of reverence. Every bow, every howl pressed against her shoulders like iron weights. She was their weapon, their savior, their prophecy made flesh. And yet, beneath the roar of adtion, her wolf shifted restlessly, as if the name they called her was not truly hers.

    From the citadel steps descended Aedric Stormbane, Alpha of the West. Tall, broad, every inch carved by power and ambition, his silver eyes locked only on her. The crowd fell silent as he approached, his presence enough tomand stillness.

    “Aria,” he said, his voice a velvet growlced with pride. “You return victorious again. The North and South lie in ruins because of you.”

    The wolves cheered once morei, /ibut Aedric did not break his gaze. He took her hand before the entire Pack, lifting it high.

    ‘Look well upon her!” he proimed. “The White Wolf stands with the West. With her at our side, no Pack can resist us–not North, not South, not even the East!”

    The courtyard shook with the answering howl. Some fell to their knees. Others reached skyward as though calling down the moon to bless her.

    Aria bowed her head slightly, her expression unreadable. This was the role expected of her: the White Wolf, conqueror of armies. She yed it well, but her chest ached with something she could not name.

    When the noise ebbed, Aedric leaned closer, his voice for her alone. “Aria. You know I will not wait forever. A wolf such as you deserves a mate strong enough to match your fire. Together, we would rule every

    horizon.”

    Her throat tightened. He had asked before–after battles, after victories, when blood and glory still burned in the air. Always he asked, and always she refused him without refusing outright.

    In her mind’s shadows lingered an image she could never banish: the silhouette of a man, faceless yet fierce, a voice whispering her name. Not Aria. Something else. Something older, truer. Every time Aedric’s touch lingered, that phantom red, and her wolf recoiled.

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    She steadied her voice. “There is still the East, Aedric. The Stormridge wolves have yet to kneel. Until that is done, I cannot bind myself to anything else.”

    The words were not a promise. Only a dy. But it was enough for the Alpha. His jaw tightened, then softened into a smile sharp as a de. He turned to his Pack once more, raising Aria’s hand as if sealing

    her fate.

    “Soon the East will fall,” he dered, “and when it does, the world will belong to the West!”

    The courtyard erupted again, a storm of devotion. Wolves knelt, others howled their worship, the name “Aria” echoing from the citadel walls like a hymn.

    Aria stood rigid in their adoration, her eyes hard, her wolf restless. She felt none of the triumph they gave her. Only the weight of chains invisible, forged from a name that was not hers, a past she could not touch, and a shadowed memory of someone she could not forget.

    As the crowd dispersed, as Aedric’s smile burned into her back, Aria turned away from the citadel steps, her cloak swirling in the torchlight.

    And when the firelight caught her face, the truth struck like lightning-

    The White Wolf of the West, their champion, their feared conqueror-

    Her face looks exactly like Riley’s.