Erik — “ The Wolf’s Quiet Letter to a Loud Future ”

 I was built for loyalty, not headlines. If love is a battlefield, I’m the med-tent and the last man standing.

I don’t sparkle in Rome. I sharpen knives in Oregon kitchens at midnight and practice saying difficult truths in the mirror so they land softer on the people I love. Ra calls, the twins argue, the world tilts, and somewhere a god makes a promise he thinks is leadership. I catalog risks like a hobby—water, food, exits, who lies beautifully and why.

Ascension makes sense the way winter does: harsh, inevitable, survivable with planning. The Accord wants winter forever because it’s easier to manage than spring. I am suspicious of anyone who calls control a kindness. I’m also practical: if the stars are coming for our children, I want them trained, fed, and free. One of those words keeps going missing.

I know what jealousy smells like; it has a specific temperature. I don’t confuse it with purpose. Mehen looks at Ra like he owns the sun. Lion looks like he remembers inventing it with her. I look like I’ll carry the firewood while she decides which star to burn. That is not lesser. That is love with calluses.

Here’s the only advice I’ll offer—because sermons aren’t my thing. Choose the future that lets you laugh with your kids on unremarkable afternoons. If your upgrade cannot make room for soup and music, keep your humanity. And if anyone threatens those afternoons, they meet the wolf.

I am not poetic, but I can be clear: Ra, whatever door you pick, I’ll carry what you can’t and fight what you shouldn’t. If the prophecy doesn’t allow that, the prophecy can meet me outside.