The assassins followed the wolf. They skittered after him, spear like legs sticking and unsticking from the ceiling in perfect rhythm. It wasn't their first time following a target before the kill. After the grand reformation, the dungeon had changed. The rules had changed, the way things operated changed, so much had changed.

For the assassins, only one thing has changed. Work was far more rare. The high value targets were gone, with them their line of work. Pay was still the same though: Experience. Already one of their number had evolved, become something more.

He didn't live long after that.

Jobs were never safe and the last thing an assassin needed was overconfidence. Which is why they were following their target from a distance. Why their plan was to scout out their den, and then come up with a real plan. It was slower. It was safer.

For assassins, safety was always first. It was the golden rule that had seen them through the reformation. It had kept the factions from finding their den, and it had kept them alive. Acid was different though. They weren't sure how, but he'd found them. He knew things he shouldn't have known.

... And he made them a deal they couldn't refuse.

Safety, for a wolf's head.

They accepted without question and got their best for the job. It should have been a simple job. But, now that they had followed their target for a little while, they were beginning to think it was anything but simple. The wolf was a normal wolf. There was nothing special to him or his pack.

Which begged the question of why the current boss of the dungeon wanted him dead. Just him and not his whole pack. It was a strange request. One that made the assassins ponder if it was worth going through with it. It was, of course, their survival depended on it. There also no telling how the boss of the dungeon might react to them failing, or refusing, such a simple job.

They continued on with the mission. Minutes passed before their target reached his den. It was, as far as wolf dens went, decent. Not too big, not too small, but just enough space for an entire pack. An entire pack that was currently resting inside said den.

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The assassins, trained as they were, froze. Their multiple eyes scanned the den, roving every fur covered wolf and every place they might be spotted in. Then they left. It was easier than getting in, where they had to slowly follow a wolf. They retraced the path they took to the den all the way back to their own home.

Where they informed their betters about the den.

....

An hour later Brutus, leader of the assassins, led a large group of assassins into the den. They came in crawling on the ceiling, and a few on the walls. The wolves that should have awake and on guard duty were mostly asleep. Only two actually kept watch.

And one of them had spotted them. Brutus, a giant of a spider, moved faster than one would think him capable and killed the alerted wolf. But not before he could howl. It was a loud howl, cut off with a violent cry of pain, one that woke the other wolves. In less than a minute the entire pack was up and ready for a fight.

The entire room erupted into an inferno of chaos as spider jumped at wolf, and wolf at spider. Fangs were bared, and lives were lost. Brutus saw it all play out in front and around him as he stalked his prey, Fenrir. The target looked around the room, confused and jumpy. And Brutus could not figure out why Acid wanted him dead. He saw nothing but another wold before him, a pup who would do nothing whether he lived or died.

And tonight, he would die.

Silent as the night itself, Brutus moved forward. He parted through the crowd of fighting and approached his target. Fangs raised, he prepared to strike. Only for his target to move. To jump out of the way at the last second and turn towards him, clearly ready for a fight.

Brutus did away with all subtlety and charged like his namesake, becoming a beast of battle. He slammed leg after leg down towards his target. Each move not fast enough to land a hit, but all rapidly coming one after another leaving his target no room to breathe. Until at last the target backed up against the wall.

There was nowhere for him to go, it was Brutus's victory. But then the unthinkable happened. The wolf, so much smaller than him, and even less experienced, weaved around him. His Grey coat moving like mist as he surged forward and bit Brutus. Again and again, the target did so. He made Brutus bleed, he made him hurt, he reminded him that a target was always more dangerous than they seemed.

In his last moments, Brutus witnessed as the wolf named Fenrir flowed past him and led his brothers to victory. As the wolf turned the tide of battle. And how small he looked.

Even for a wolf.