In the pale light of early morning, where the sun barely grazes the horizon, casting long, ethereal shadows across the frozen Norse tundra, a wounded werewolf in heavy black armor thudded through the snow on all fours.
His dark form was a blur against the white snow, a stark contrast to the tranquil and unyielding wilderness that enveloped Frostvik.
The werewolf, obviously Erik, left behind a flurry of snow swirling in the air as he navigated the treacherous terrain. His paws crunched on the snow, and each breath he exhaled materialized as a cloud of vapor, quickly dissipating in the chill air.
Around him, the taiga forest stood as an ancient witness to his flight. The dense conifers, laden with snow, formed a formidable wall of green and white, their branches swaying gently in the frigid breeze.
