A distant howl echoed through the frozen air. The full moon bathed the vast sea of ice in a cold, silver glow. A pack of werewolves sprinted at full speed, their claws scratching the ice as they neared the mainland. Ahead of them stood a grey werewolf, the one who had howled.
"Alpha Artem, we succeeded. They're all dead," growled Ronin, the black werewolf. He puffed out his chest, though it was clear that the pack had suffered. The grey werewolf, Artem, scanned the group. Their numbers had dwindled, and many were injured. His eyes landed on Titus, the white werewolf, whose face was still caked with his own frosted blood.
"You didn't kill them all," Artem said, his piercing gaze fixed on Ronin.
"The Zurks' covenant arrived," Titus explained, his voice rough from the cold.
"Vulcan will not be pleased," Artem muttered, his lips curling back into a snarl. His sharp eyes caught movement in the sky—a bald eagle circling above. It wasn't just any bird. That was Vulcan's spy. The eagle's presence meant their failure would be known soon enough. They had failed to eliminate all the witches and warlocks on Zires Isle, and now there was no way to hide it. Artem clenched his teeth, frustrated.
The ice bridge connecting them to the mainland had been destroyed. The only passage left was the southern bridge, barely secured.
"Damn it," Artem growled under his breath, his frustration clear. "We really messed up." He turned sharply toward the mountains in the distance. "Return to Argentum," he ordered. Without another word, he bolted, the pack following closely behind, their breath rising in clouds as they ran.
*****
He had failed them. Sillus stood over the lifeless bodies laid before him, his men placing each one carefully onto the wooden pyres. The air was thick with grief, and his heart ached with the weight of it. Thalia, his daughter, stood beside him, her eyes shifting from the bodies to her father. His grey hair and bearded face were etched with sorrow.
"Fa—my lord," Thalia began, catching herself before using the forbidden word. She wasn't allowed to address him as "father" in moments like these or rather she was never allowed to. She took a deep breath and continued, "The werewolves... they came from the south. They must have used the ice bridge to reach Zires."
Sillus' eyes never left the scene before him. His men were arranging the dead villagers, placing their bodies on a pile of stacked wood, and adding flowers carefully around them. It was a ritual, a proper burial for those who had fallen.
"Why would they attack Zires?" Sillus muttered, his voice low, filled with both anger and sadness. His gaze followed the flames as they began to rise, the flowers curling in the heat. He couldn't understand why this had happened, why this person had been targeted. The fire crackled, but no answers came.
"We don't know yet, my lord" Thalia replied. "But werewolves have been hunting our kind for many years."
Sillus shook his head, his brow furrowed. "Not like this. They stopped hunting witches and warlocks on the mainland years ago. Why now? Why Zires?"
"Perhaps," Thalia began, hesitating for a moment before continuing, "I could ask Layla—with your permission, of course—to look into the mind of one of the dead werewolves."
Sillus thought for a moment, the cold wind brushing gently against his face, and then nodded. "Take one of their heads and bring it to Layla. Let her see what she can find."
Thalia bowed her head, accepting his order, and turned to leave. As she walked away, the soft, chill breeze seemed to whisper through the trees, mingling with the distant sound of the burial rites.
She moved toward the cabin where a group of children who had survived the attack awaited, their faces pale and eyes wide with fear. They had seen too much.
Four children, no older than ten, huddled together inside the cabin, their small bodies trembling as they tried to warm themselves by the fire. Borris, sat nearby, peeling roots and dropping them into a pot of boiling water. In the corner lay Orla, the child Thalia had saved earlier, still unconscious but breathing steadily
"Borris," Thalia called quietly. Borris turned to face her. "I need you to do something," she said as icy blades began to form in her hands, shimmering in the firelight. "Take one of the werewolves' heads, wrap it, and make sure it's preserved. I need the brain intact."
Without a word, Borris stood, placing his knife on the table. He took the icy blade from Thalia's hands. He gave a single nod before leaving the cabin, his heavy boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. The door creaked as he stepped into the cold night.
Thalia's gaze shifted to the children, their eyes wide with fear, their small hands clutching their knees. She understood their terror. She had been like them once—scared, alone. But she wasn't a child anymore, even if she was only fifteen.
"Eat," she instructed gently, gesturing toward the pot Borris had left behind. "Once the sun rises, we'll leave."
"Where are you taking us?" asked Aoife, her small voice trembling. At just eight years old, she had the distinct features of all Zires: ginger curly hair, bright green eyes, and pale skin dusted with freckles.
"Somewhere safer—in Zurks," Thalia replied, sitting down in front of the fire. She carefully scooped the boiled roots from the pot, placing them onto steel plates, the steam rising into the cool air.
"Zurks?" Conor, nine years old, looked up with wide eyes. "My papa told me we have powerful sisters and brothers there. Are you powerful?"
Thalia gave a faint smile, shaking her head. "No, but Lord Sillus is," she said softly, handing out the plates to the children. She noticed Aoife moving to wake Orla, who was still sleeping soundly in the corner.
"Let her rest," Thalia said gently, placing a hand on Aoife's shoulder. "I'll feed her when she wakes up." She handed Aoife her portion of the roots, her expression softening as she watched the children eat. For now, they were safe. But Thalia knew that safety was fleeting.
"Papa said that on the mainland, some witches and wizards can control human anatomy," Aoife said between bites, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Thalia looked at her thoughtfully, then shook her head. "Not all of them," she replied, her tone serious. "Controlling human anatomy isn't exactly magic—it's more like a curse. Something dark, twisted."
Her gaze lingered on the children. She could see it—the magic that lived within them. Zires had always been known for their unique connection with the spirits, a bond that set them apart. These children, like all Zires, were special, even if they didn't realize it yet.
Thalia stepped outside into the cold night, her eyes scanning for Borris. She found him kneeling by a large rock, carefully wrapping the severed head of the werewolf. When he finished, he stood and handed back her icy blade.
Before she could say anything, a voice called out to her. "Thalia," Archon approached, his metallic blonde hair catching the moonlight. His green eyes met hers. He was her age, but his serious demeanor often made him seem older. "Lord Sillus said we can't wait for sunrise. We're leaving now."
"I see," Thalia nodded, her expression calm despite the sudden change in plans. "Can you gather the children?"
"Of course," Archon replied, and with a quick nod, he turned to head back toward the cabin. Borris silently followed behind him.
As they disappeared from view, Thalia suddenly winced. Her right hand throbbed with pain, the aftereffects of using too much magic. She clenched her fist, trying to ease the ache. Her eyes drifted to the full moon above, glowing eerily in the sky.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, Thalia noticed something flying across the sky. A bald eagle? At this hour? It circled slowly under the glowing full moon. Thalia then shifted her eyes through the snow ground, she could see its shadows flying in the lower altitude. She had heard of Vulcan's spies, but to see one now made her uneasy. Pretending not to care, she casually glanced away, as though she hadn't noticed the bird by in the side view of her eyes, she observes.
In a swift movement, her hand shot upward, and with a flick of her wrist, she conjured an icy blade that shimmered in the moonlight. The blade soared through the air, fast and silent, striking the eagle. The bird let out a single cry before falling lifelessly to the ground.