Oath of the Wolf’s Fang
To defend the weak is to bare one’s teeth at the tyrant. This oath is carved into the very bone of a warrior.
While others see only the enemy’s blade, the waiting warrior sees the breath behind it. They watch the shifting feet, the tightening of a knuckle, the flicker of doubt in an opponent’s eye. Their patience is a net, woven from stillness, cast wide to catch every tremor in the fabric of the fight. They are not idle. They are reading the story of the battle before the final word is written.
This is not passive waiting. It is a fierce, active discipline. It is the will to hold your fire when every instinct screams to release it. In that crucible of restraint, a deeper strength is forged:
When the warrior who waits finally moves, it is not an attack. It is a conclusion. It is the inevitable result of all that has been observed and absorbed. Their action is like a river finding the crack in the dam, a force that was always present, finally given direction. It is not faster, but perfectly, devastatingly timely. The enemy does not see a blow coming; they meet the consequence of their own mistakes.
Let the storm rage around you,
I am the unshaken stone.
My patience is my sharpest blade,
My stillness, a victory already won.
To defend the weak is to bare one’s teeth at the tyrant. This oath is carved into the very bone of a warrior.
When all others fall, I remain. My shield is the last wall between ruin and the innocent.
In chaos I endure, in silence I heal. I am both the strike and the shield.