The sun rose over Woodhaven, casting long shadows across the village, but there was no warmth in its light. The once-thriving community was now a landscape of devastation—homes reduced to ruins, streets littered with debris, and the air thick with the stench of death and smoke. The village that had stood for generations, a place of safety and community, was now a broken shell, haunted by the horrors of the night before.
John Callahan stood at the edge of what remained of his farmhouse, his eyes hollow as he stared at the grave he had dug for his son. The earth was freshly turned, the soil dark and damp, a stark contrast to the bright, clear sky above. John's hands were raw and blistered from digging, but he felt no pain—only a deep, numbing emptiness that had settled in his chest, a void where his heart had once been.
Daniel's body lay wrapped in a simple cloth, his small form barely making an impression on the ground. John had placed him gently into the grave, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he could somehow delay the finality of it all. But now, as he stood over the grave, shovel in hand, the reality of what he was about to do washed over him like a cold wave.
He had buried many things in his life—pets, livestock, even friends—but never had he imagined he would have to bury his own child. The weight of that knowledge was crushing, suffocating, and he struggled to breathe as he looked down at the lifeless body of his son.
Mary was gone, taken by the creatures that had torn through their lives like a storm. But Daniel… Daniel was here, silent and still, a painful reminder of everything they had lost. John's hands trembled as he began to shovel the earth over his son's body, each movement slow, deliberate, as if he could somehow undo the horror of the night before.
The soil fell in soft, heavy clumps, covering the small bundle bit by bit, until there was nothing left to see—just a mound of earth, a crude marker of a life that had been snuffed out far too soon. John stood there for a long time, staring at the grave, his thoughts a tangled mess of grief, guilt, and anger.
He had failed. He had promised to protect his family, to keep them safe, and he had failed. The weight of that failure was unbearable, and he could feel it pressing down on him, threatening to crush him completely. He had lost everything—his son, his wife, his home—and it was all his fault.
As the last of the earth was laid over the grave, John finally allowed himself to break. He fell to his knees, the shovel slipping from his grasp as he buried his face in his hands, his body wracked with sobs. The sound was raw, primal, filled with a pain that tore through him like a blade. He cried for his son, for his wife, for the life they had lost, and for the man he had once been—the man who had believed he could protect them.
But that man was gone, buried along with his son, and in his place was someone else—someone consumed by grief, by guilt, by a burning need for revenge. John knew he could never be the man he had once been, but he also knew he couldn't stay here, wallowing in his pain. He had to do something. He had to find Mary. He had to make the creatures that had taken her pay.
But first, he had to face the aftermath.
The village was a wasteland of destruction. The creatures had torn through the town with a ferocity that left nothing untouched. Homes were reduced to smoldering ruins, livestock slaughtered, and the bodies of the dead lay where they had fallen, their lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.
John walked through the village in a daze, his body moving on autopilot as he took in the devastation. He saw the faces of his neighbors, now twisted in death, their expressions frozen in horror and pain. He recognized them all—people he had known for years, people he had shared meals with, worked alongside, laughed with. They were all gone now, their lives snuffed out in a single night of terror.
He stopped beside the body of Elias, the farmer who had fought alongside him during the attack. The man's rifle lay nearby, its barrel bent and twisted, a testament to the strength of the creatures they had faced. Elias's face was pale, his eyes wide open, a look of disbelief etched into his features. John knelt beside him, closing his eyes and whispering a silent prayer before moving on.
There were others—Henry, the quiet man with the strength of an ox, now lying in a pool of his own blood; Amos, the young blacksmith who had recently taken over his father's shop, his body broken and lifeless. John passed them all, his heart aching with every step, but there was no time to mourn. There were still people who needed help, still survivors who needed tending.
At the village square, a small group of survivors had gathered, their faces pale and drawn, their eyes filled with a mix of fear and sorrow. Thomas, the village elder, was among them, his usually strong and commanding presence diminished by the weight of what had happened. He was tending to a woman with a deep gash on her leg, his hands steady despite the tremor in his voice as he spoke softly to her.
John approached the group, his expression grim. "How many are left?" he asked, his voice rough from disuse.
Thomas looked up, his eyes meeting John's with a mixture of relief and sorrow. "Not many," he replied, his voice heavy with grief. "We've lost more than half the village. Some are dead, others… missing."
John swallowed hard, the words hitting him like a blow. He had known it was bad, but hearing the numbers, knowing just how many lives had been lost, made it all the more real.
"We need to bury the dead," John said, his voice flat, emotionless. "And we need to tend to the wounded. We can't leave them like this."
Thomas nodded, his face grim. "You're right. We'll need to dig a mass grave for those we've lost. And we'll need to figure out what to do next. This village… it's not safe anymore."
John didn't respond. He knew Thomas was right—Woodhaven was no longer the haven it had once been. But the thought of leaving, of abandoning the place where his family had lived, where his son was buried, was almost too much to bear.
But there was no time to dwell on it. There was work to be done.
The next few days passed in a blur of exhaustion and sorrow. The survivors worked tirelessly, burying the dead, tending to the wounded, and salvaging what little they could from the wreckage of their homes. John threw himself into the work, using the physical labor as a way to numb the pain that gnawed at him from the inside.
He didn't speak much, and when he did, his words were clipped and emotionless. The other survivors gave him space, sensing the anger and grief that simmered just beneath the surface. They knew he had lost more than most, and they respected his need for silence, for solitude.
But even as he worked, as he helped to dig graves and bandage wounds, John's mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were consumed by Mary, by the image of her being carried off into the night by the Lycan King. He replayed the events of that night over and over in his mind, searching for something he could have done differently, something that might have saved her, saved Daniel.
But no matter how many times he went over it, the outcome was always the same. He had failed.
At night, when the work was done and the village was quiet, John would sit by Daniel's grave, his mind a whirlwind of grief and rage. He would stare at the mound of earth, his thoughts dark and twisted, filled with visions of the creatures that had taken everything from him.
He could see them in his mind's eye—their glowing eyes, their sharp teeth, their claws stained with the blood of his loved ones. And in the center of it all was the Lycan King, towering and powerful, its presence a dark shadow over his every thought.
John knew he couldn't stay here. He couldn't stay in this village, surrounded by the memories of what he had lost. He had to find Mary. He had to make the creatures pay for what they had done.
But first, he had to recover.
John's wounds were severe—deep gashes along his arms and chest, bruises that covered his body, and a cracked rib that made every breath a struggle. But he refused to rest, refused to let his injuries slow him down. He pushed through the pain, through the exhaustion, driven by a need to keep moving, to keep doing something, anything, to avoid the crushing weight of his grief.
But his body had its limits. On the third day after the attack, as he was helping to move some debris from what had once been the blacksmith's shop, John's legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed to the ground, his vision swimming as pain lanced through his chest. The world spun around him, and he could barely hear the shouts of the others as they rushed to his side.
When he came to, he was lying in one of the few remaining intact houses, his chest tightly bandaged, his body weak and trembling. Thomas was sitting beside him, his expression stern.
"You're lucky to be alive," Thomas said, his voice low. "You've been pushing yourself too hard, John. You need to rest, or you're not going to make it."
John tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest was too much, and he fell back against the bed with a groan. "I don't have time to rest," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "I need to find Mary."
Thomas's expression softened, and he placed a hand on John's shoulder. "I know you do, John. But you can't do that if you're dead. You need to take care of yourself first. Rest, heal, and then you can go after her."
John wanted to argue, wanted to push himself up and keep going, but his body refused to cooperate. He was too weak, too exhausted, and he knew Thomas was right. He needed to recover, to regain his strength, if he was going to have any chance of finding Mary.
But the thought of resting, of lying here while Mary was out there somewhere, filled him with anger. He didn't want to rest. He wanted to act, to fight, to make the creatures that had taken her pay.
But he had no choice. His body demanded rest, and he had to listen, no matter how much it pained him to do so.
The days passed slowly, each one dragging on like an eternity. John remained bedridden, his wounds healing slowly, but his mind was far from at peace. He was plagued by nightmares, visions of the attack, of Daniel's lifeless body, of Mary's screams as she was carried away.
He would wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his heart racing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. And every time, he would be filled with a burning rage, a need for revenge that consumed him.
But there was nothing he could do. He was trapped in this bed, his body too weak to do anything but lie there and relive the horrors of that night over and over again.
The other survivors tried to help, tried to offer comfort, but John pushed them away. He didn't want their pity, didn't want their words of sympathy. He didn't deserve it. He had failed to protect his family, and now he was paying the price.
Thomas was the only one who didn't give up on him. The elder visited him every day, bringing food and water, sitting with him in silence when words weren't enough. He didn't push, didn't try to force John to talk, but his presence was a comfort, a reminder that John wasn't completely alone.
But even Thomas couldn't reach the part of John that was consumed by guilt and anger. John knew he was pulling away, knew he was becoming more withdrawn, more isolated, but he couldn't stop it. The pain was too much, the grief too overwhelming.
One night, as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, John made a decision. He couldn't stay here any longer. He couldn't keep lying in this bed, wallowing in his pain. He had to do something. He had to find Mary, to make the creatures that had taken her pay for what they had done.
He knew it wouldn't be easy. He knew he was still weak, still recovering. But he couldn't wait any longer. Every day that passed was another day Mary was out there, alone, in the clutches of the Lycan King.
The thought of her suffering, of her being held captive by that monstrous creature, was enough to spur John into action. He would rest tonight, gather his strength, and in the morning, he would leave Woodhaven. He would track down the creatures, find their lair, and rescue Mary.
And if he couldn't save her, if it was already too late… then he would make sure the creatures paid with their lives.
The morning was cold and gray, the sky overcast, as if the world itself was mourning the loss of the village. John dressed slowly, his movements stiff and painful, but determined. He wrapped his chest tightly, trying to ease the pain from his cracked rib, and then gathered what little supplies he had left—a knife, some food, a canteen of water.
He didn't have much, but it would have to do. He didn't plan on being gone long. Either he would find Mary and bring her back, or he would die trying.
As he stepped out of the house, he was met by Thomas, who was waiting for him by the door. The elder's expression was solemn, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and understanding.
"You're leaving," Thomas said, though it wasn't a question.
John nodded. "I have to find her, Thomas. I can't stay here any longer. I need to know if she's still alive."
Thomas sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I was afraid you'd say that. You're still weak, John. You're not ready."
"I don't have a choice," John replied, his voice firm. "I can't stay here, doing nothing. I have to try."
Thomas was silent for a moment, then he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He handed it to John, his expression serious.
"This might help," Thomas said. "It's an old book, something my father gave me. It has information about creatures like the ones we faced. It might give you some idea of what you're up against."
John took the book, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover. He looked up at Thomas, gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you."
Thomas nodded, his expression softening. "Be careful, John. And if you find her… bring her home."
"I will," John promised, his voice filled with determination.
With that, he turned and walked away from the village, his steps slow but steady. He didn't look back, didn't allow himself to dwell on what he was leaving behind. His focus was on the road ahead, on the journey that lay before him.
He would find Mary. He would save her. And he would make the creatures that had taken her pay for what they had done.
The path ahead was uncertain, filled with danger and darkness, but John didn't care. All that mattered was finding his wife, avenging his son, and bringing an end to the nightmare that had destroyed his life.
And if he had to walk through hell itself to do that, then so be it.