A bitter winter night blankets the village, its air filled with the sound of desperate screams. The snow on the ground is trampled, showing signs of a panicked crowd fleeing in all directions.

Most of the village's territory consists of snow-dusted farmland. An incomplete wooden wall surrounds the town, severed by the broken gate. Half-buried in the snow and dirt, the remnants of the arch once read, Welcome to Yaniyè.

Screams echo from within the houses, piercing the cold night. Most doors hang broken and shattered windows reveal the chaos inside. Blood streaks the streets, smears the windows and stains the walls, painting a grim picture of the carnage.

Beasts tear through the village, their movements splashing mud and snow in every direction. Some run on two legs, others on four, their brown fur matted with bloodied mud.

A desperate cry rings out near the exit that has yet to be broken. A man kneels, blood streaming from a deep wound on his neck, his tattered armor offering no protection. 

One hand presses against the wound while the other, still grasping the spear, lies discarded several meters away.

He lets out a final yell as the beasts close in. "Run!" he shouts, his voice cut off by the snap of jaws. A woman flees toward the forest, clutching a bundle wrapped in blankets but the distance is too great, her escape too slow.

Her steps falter as a beast reaches her, its fangs sinking into her shoulder and claws tearing into her torso. She collapses in agony. The baby's cry piercing the air as its mother's screams fade.

The child tumbles into the snow, cushioned by the blankets. Two more beasts rush past the mother. The first beast shifts its focus to the wailing child, charging in an instant and sinking its fangs into the tiny body, drawing blood with terrifying ease.

Hours later, the sun rises and begins to sink again. 

A group of thirty armored figures approaches from the south. Metal-clad warriors, leather-bound hunters and robed figures accompany three carriages pulled by salamander-like creatures, their march carving new paths into the snow-covered farmland.

The destruction left by the beasts is evident in every step. The group presses onward, their grim expressions reflecting the horrors they expect to find ahead.

The robed figure at the front halts, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Werewolves. There are marks everywhere. We are late… much too late." The stillness of the snow amplifies the weight of his words, an unsettling quiet that blankets the scene.

The man in white and blue armor scans the surroundings, his sharp gaze catching every shadow. Without raising his voice, he issues a calm command. "Weapons drawn, no surprises."

The order ripples through the group, each member unsheathing swords, readying bows, or gripping staves tightly. The salamanders are left behind, their excessively long tails coiled around the wooden stubs at the front of the carriages.

The group slows at the first sight of blood. It's a gruesome mess, impossible to tell what the victim once was. As they continue, more blood stains the snow, painting a path of carnage.

"Only a few villagers were caught outside. Maybe some did make it out," the robed man offers with faint hope. The woman in leather armor responds quietly, her tone grim. "Don't get your hopes up. You know what we're dealing with."

They reach the village entrance and split into smaller groups. Each searches the blood-soaked buildings, finding no survivors and barely suppressing their stomachs.

At the unbroken gate, one of them discovers a body lying in a pool of frozen blood, its injuries fatal but the form still recognizable.

The woman clad in leather steps outside, her eyes fixed on something distant. She shouts in alarm, trying to grab the captain's attention. With her spear at the ready, she points toward a mound of gray, brown and red far beyond the gate, halfway between the village and the forest.

The group rushes to her, one by one seeing the grim sight. 

The captain immediately gives orders to split into three teams and surround the area with care. They move carefully, closing the distance as an eerie humming begins to rise and fall.

As they approach, the mass becomes clearer—a pile of fur and blood, frozen in place. Patches of fur flutter in the wind, while others remain stiff with ice and gore. The woman's voice trembles as she realizes the scale of it. 

"It's a mountain of werewolves... at least twelve, maybe fifteen."

One of the hunters hesitates before asking, "What is that humming?" The group falls silent, unease thick in the air. The captain breaks the quiet, issuing orders. "Move the bodies slowly. If it's a threat, we eliminate it."

They begin shifting the frozen werewolves, their stiffened muscles making the task manageable but the sheer weight slowing progress. With every layer they uncover, the humming grows louder, almost like a cry. 

The woman's sharp voice breaks through the tension. "FASTER!"

Digging frantically, they uncover the source—a child, crying in a pool of blood and fur. The woman immediately wraps the infant in a winter coat, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. 

The leader rubs the bridge of his nose, issuing a firm command. 

"Everyone into the town, fortify what you can, guard the child! Find others who may have survived!" 

His words send the group into motion, each person rushing to their tasks.

The village is filled with activity as some repair the broken gates while others search the houses, retrieving remains. The sound of the child's cries echoes through the town, a constant reminder of the night's horrors.

A hunter emerges from a house, rushing over with a bottle of cold milk.

"No fire, Oblea. I am sorry," the hunter says, apologetically. 

Oblea, the woman holding the child, turns to the mage. "We need fires! And hot milk!" she shouts, holding the bottle up in the air.

The robed man raises his staff, speaking an incantation as glowing circles of magic appear around him.

Fires spring to life across the village, flickering like makeshift campfires. He finishes his spell, extending a hand to the bottle, which begins to bubble before settling, now warmed.

Oblea feeds the child, relief washing over her as the infant begins to drink quietly.

With careful hands, she tends to the child, cleaning away blood and dirt with a piece of cloth. 

Bite marks stand out against its skin, deep enough to draw blood but not to kill. The cries of the infant fill the stillness, a sound of fragile life amidst the destruction.

The adventurers work tirelessly to mend the broken gates and clean the streets, but their efforts bring no solace. 

There are no other survivors, only carnage.

 As night falls, small groups gather around the fires.

By the fire, the leaders sit with their closest aides, the weight of the night's events hanging over them. They speak in hushed tones about the child and the wolves. The question of how one small infant survived such a deadly horde leaves them uneasy.

Oblea speaks up, her voice tense. 

"The wolves were dead before they reached her. Whatever killed them, it pierced clean through them."

Oblea looks toward the robed man, who pauses thoughtfully before raising his hand. The fires dim as a new light appears above the group, illuminating their surroundings. 

Slowly, his hand moves toward the child.

The robed man addresses the crowd, his tone grave. "I've put the child into a deeper sleep, for our safety. She was bitten by several wolves. Alive, surrounded by death, crying in a pool of blood and fur. Protected by the corpses of her attackers."

A pause fills everyone's hearts, the weight of his words sinking in.

"There's a high chance this child possesses a terrible ability."

Oblea exhales sharply, her patience wearing thin as she fixes on him a sharp glare. "Spit it out, old man," she snaps, her voice dripping with irritation. "No need for the theatrics."

"Bloodcraft." He follows immediately after the glare. "The ability to control one's own blood. Though control might not be the right word at her age." The murmurs spread through the group, the leader frowning deeply while Oblea looks at the child in shock and disbelief.

"If we turn her in and she has that skill, she's destined for a life of misery," she says softly. "At best, an execution." 

She tightens the blankets around the infant, as if shielding her from a cruel fate.

The robed man sighs.

 "That's true. But it's out of our hands." He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. "If we keep the child, the church will make an example out of The Hellcats."

His words send a ripple of unease through the group. Concern flashes in their eyes as the implications sink in. 

"And just like that," he adds, his voice low, "The Hellcats become no more."

Oblea's voice rises with anger, her eyes blazing. 

"Curse a god that damns a child," she spits. 

The hunters around the fire draw closer, their faces reflecting a mix of concern and conflict.

One speaks up, breaking the silence.

"We should at least give the child a chance." Another agrees quietly, "That's the least anyone could do. She deserves that much." But a third voice counters, heavy with caution, "If we help her, we risk everything. The church will hunt us all down."

Their debate stretches through the night, words weighted with fear and morality. By morning, the hunters finish their repairs and burn the bodies, including the wolves. 

The village lies still as a cleanup crew is left to handle the final remains.

When the group departs, only Oblea stays behind. She lingers, cradling the child, unwilling to leave her fate in anyone else's hands. By the time the others reach the city, Oblea and the infant will be far from any trace of civilization.