Talon, Emma, and Leona moved cautiously through the dense, withered forest, the brittle branches crackling beneath their feet as they navigated the labyrinth of twisted trees and thorny vines. The forest was old—ancient, even—and its silence carried the weight of centuries of forgotten secrets. Above them, the pale moon cast an eerie glow, illuminating their path but also highlighting the shadows that seemed to flicker and dance around them.
Ahead, the massive silhouette of an ancient palace loomed, hidden deep within the forest's tangled embrace. Its walls were constructed of enormous stone blocks, worn and weathered by time, each brick bearing the scars of ages long past. Moss and lichen crept over the stone like a second skin, a reminder of nature's slow reclaiming of the structure. The palace was a relic of a forgotten era, abandoned and consumed by the wilderness, yet it held an undeniable pull, as though the land itself beckoned them closer.
"This place feels… wrong," Emma whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft rustling of the wind. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, her eyes scanning the desolate surroundings. "Talon, I sense a familiar yet terrifying presence."
Talon nodded, his sharp gaze never leaving the palace's towering structure. "I feel it too. There's something powerful here. We need to be on guard."
Leona, trailing just behind them, glanced uneasily at the towering walls. "I don't sense anything familiar, just fear. Whatever this place is, it reeks of danger. This might be one of those places tied to your kind, Talon." Her voice held a mixture of dread and curiosity.
As they approached the palace's entrance, the air grew heavy with the scent of age and decay. A massive bronze gate towered before them, its surface intricately carved with ancient runes and patterns that seemed to pulse with latent energy. The gate exuded an aura of mystic power, sending chills down their spines. Time had not been kind to the gate; the bronze had tarnished and darkened, but the power imbued within the carvings remained potent.
Before the gate sprawled an expansive courtyard. Broken pillars, toppled statues, and scattered stones littered the ground, remnants of a forgotten civilization that had long since crumbled to dust. The courtyard was silent, save for the faint whisper of the wind that carried with it the weight of history. The stone floor beneath their feet was cold and cracked, as though the earth itself was struggling to hold on to the memories of this once-grand place.
The three stood at the edge of the courtyard, taking in the imposing structure before them. The palace's grandiosity was undeniable, but it was not a welcoming sight. The air was thick with tension, and an undercurrent of something ancient and malevolent slithered beneath the surface.
"We should be careful," Talon said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever is inside won't be easily defeated."
They approached the palace doors, massive slabs of stone that towered over them. With a collective effort, they pushed them open, the ancient hinges creaking and groaning in protest as the doors revealed the grand hall within. A cold gust of air greeted them, carrying the scent of dust and old, forgotten battles.
The hall was a testament to the power and majesty of the werewolves. Weapons adorned the walls—blades, shields, axes—each one a relic of a bygone era. Banners hung from the ceiling, their once-bright colors now faded with age, but the symbols of the werewolf tribes were still visible. Thick carpets, worn with time, covered the stone floors, luxurious in their design yet primal in their purpose.
Standing in the center of the room, guarding the palace's secrets, was a figure. A man, tall and imposing, with a broad, muscular frame that seemed carved from stone. He wielded a massive ancient sword, its blade gleaming coldly in the dim light. His long black hair flowed over his shoulders, and his sharp eyes gleamed with intelligence and caution.
He was clad in a thick fur cloak, the intricate runes and symbols woven into the fabric marking his status and strength. The air around him crackled with power, and his mere presence exuded the ancient and wild energy of the werewolves.
He regarded Talon, Emma, and Leona with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. "Tell me, my kin," he addressed Talon with a mocking smile, "is this woman your slave? Or perhaps your pet?"
Talon's jaw tightened, his grip on his weapon growing firmer. Emma shot a glance at Leona, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. The oppressive atmosphere in the hall was suffocating, and the werewolf's condescension only added to the tension.
The man's eyes gleamed with wild beauty, his movements graceful yet imposing. His presence was overwhelming, like a force of nature that could not be contained. He was a living embodiment of the ancient world, where werewolves ruled the land and humanity was insignificant.
Leona, despite her earlier unease, raised her chin defiantly. "I am no one's pet," she said, her voice steady. "We came for answers, not insults."
The werewolf's eyes flickered with amusement, though the contempt never left his face. "Bold words for a human," he replied. "But you will soon see that the answers you seek come at a cost."
Talon and Emma exchanged a glance, their unspoken understanding clear. This was no ordinary werewolf. His aura was powerful, ancient, and filled with the untamed wildness of the forest. He was not just a guardian; he was a remnant of an age long past, and defeating him would not be easy.
The werewolf raised his sword, its gleaming blade catching the flickering light from the banners above. "If you wish to continue," he said, his voice a low growl, "you must prove yourselves worthy."
Outside the palace, far from the tense standoff between Talon, Emma, Leona, and the werewolf, another group moved cautiously through the wilderness. Peter, Charles, and the Dragon Squad had ventured deep into the forest, though their path led them not to a palace, but to a vast and eerie graveyard. Ancient tombstones stood like silent sentinels, their inscriptions worn and faded by time. Wilted flowers lay scattered across the ground, their bitter scent mingling with the cold air, adding an ominous weight to the already oppressive atmosphere.
"This feels wrong," Peter muttered, his eyes scanning the tombstones warily. The graveyard stretched out before them, a sea of forgotten souls, and the weight of the place pressed down on him like a heavy shroud.
Suddenly, Peter stopped, a look of realization dawning on his face. "Captain," he said, turning to Brian, "how many members are in your squad?"
Brian frowned at the odd question. "Ten," he replied. "Why?"
Peter's face grew pale. "Count them again," he urged, his voice filled with growing dread.
Brian called out to his squad, his voice echoing in the eerie silence. But as they gathered, a cold chill ran down his spine. There were only nine.
"Yi…" Brian murmured. "Where is Yi?"