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Callum Ironwood stepped from the treeline like a ghost from an old legend, his presence heavy with the weight of unspoken tales. The firelight caught the silver in his dark grey hair and beard, turning him into something timeless—a warrior etched by age but unbroken by it. His jacket, worn and scarred, spoke of countless battles fought and won, each mark a story he carried in silence.  

He had been here before, many times over the years. Training young Garou wasn’t a job; it was a duty, a promise made to those who had mentored him long ago. Every cub he guided through their first uncertain steps into this life reminded him of the ones who hadn’t made it, their faces etched into his memory like shadows on a wall. But he couldn’t think about that now. Not here, not tonight.  

In moments, the man was gone, replaced by a massive Tundra Wolf. His golden eyes gleamed like firelight in the dark, burning with a quiet, commanding intensity. He moved forward, silent and deliberate, each step heavy with purpose, the scars on his coat like echoes of old storms.

He see's Snapjaw came through the edge of the clearing, his figure outlined by the fire’s glow, and approaches. “Snapjaw,” he called, circling Snapjaw. Callum didn’t growl or snarl; his presence alone was enough to fill the space with tension, a quiet pressure that demanded acknowledgment. When he stopped, his golden eyes met Snapjaw’s, sharp as a blade cutting through fog. "Have you completed your hunt for tonight's meal?" 

The words weren’t cruel, but they carried weight. Callum didn’t waste breath on empty platitudes. He believed in these cubs—every single one of them—but belief didn’t soften the edges of the world they were about to face. He knew what the Rite of Passage would demand of them. He knew it could break them. "You weren't just star gazing, were you?"