(THE SILVER PACK)

He pulled the blade from his father's heart and the older werewolf fell to the ground holding on to the deep wound as blood streamed out.

Atlas, a young pup barely seven years old, stood motionless in the center of the pack's den. His small frame seemed almost swallowed by the darkness, yet his eyes, reflecting the moonlight, burned with an intensity that belied his age. In his tiny hands, he clutched a weapon - the shadowsteel.

Before him, sprawled on the cold floor, lay the lifeless body of Alpha Alaric, the revered leader of the Silver Pack. His once imposing figure was now a grotesque parody of its former self, his fur matted with blood, his lips wearing a sad smile and his eyes fixed in an eternal stare of pain.

In the heart of the Silver pack, nestled amidst towering, gnarled trees, a scene of unspeakable horror unfolded.

One that would never be forgotten.