As the final shackle hit the ground with a heavy thud, a low tremor rolled beneath their feet.
The battlefield stilled.
The wind shifted, no longer carrying the sharp bite of blood and magic. Instead, it moved gently across the ruined plain—cool, calm, and oddly comforting. It carried something else too. A presence. Old. Heavy. Divine.
Then, the massive form of Fenrir stirred.
His breathing deepened. Muscles relaxed. The silver fur that had once been matted with blood now shimmered clean under the sunlight, as if the divine elixir had washed away more than just madness.
His eyes opened slowly.
Gone was the frenzied glow. In its place were calm, steady eyes—intelligent, vast, and ancient. Eyes that belonged not to a beast, but a god.
The warriors stood frozen. No one spoke. No one moved. They just stared.
Then, Fenrir's gaze fell on Arthur.
"…You," he said.
