[Author's Note: Hello, Fantasians! If you read this, you'll gain insight into the complex dynamics between werewolves, humans, witches, and elves, which will help clarify the sacrifices mentioned in Chapter 1. However, be warned that it may contain key plot revelations. If you'd like to avoid spoilers, feel free to skip ahead to the next chapter.]

Once upon a time, in a world where the boundaries between myth and reality blurred, humans, werewolves, witches, and elves coexisted in fragile harmony. Humans, blissfully unaware of the supernatural beings living among them, went about their lives in ignorant peace. The werewolves, masters of disguise, walked among them, their true nature hidden beneath the veneer of humanity. But beneath the surface of this delicate balance, tensions simmered, waiting for a spark to ignite the flames of chaos.

One fateful day, deep within the shadow-drenched woods of the Shadow Pack Kingdom, a lone werewolf stumbled through the underbrush. His fur was matted with blood, his ribs visible beneath his heaving sides. Hunger gnawed at his insides, a relentless ache that clouded his mind. His amber eyes, sharp and piercing, darted through the trees, searching for prey. The forest was eerily silent, as if holding its breath, the only sound the crunch of leaves beneath his paws.

As he limped forward, the scent of apples and earth reached his nostrils. His ears twitched, and his head snapped toward the source. There, standing in a small clearing, was an old woman and a young boy. The woman's silver hair glinted in the dappled sunlight, her face lined with age but her eyes bright with curiosity. The boy, no older than ten, clutched a basket of apples, his wide eyes fixed on the werewolf.

The werewolf's lips curled back, revealing jagged teeth. His growl was low and guttural, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "Humans," he snarled, his voice rough and dripping with disdain. "But you—" His gaze locked onto the boy, and his nostrils flared. "You're one of us."

The old woman stepped forward, her movements calm and deliberate. Her smile was warm, almost maternal, as if she were addressing a lost child rather than a beast. "So, the stories are true," she said, her voice soft but steady. "Werewolves do exist. How fascinating."

The werewolf's eyes narrowed, his muscles tensing. "You're not afraid?" he growled, his voice tinged with both suspicion and hunger.

The old woman chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in the stillness of the forest. "Fear is for those who don't understand," she replied. She reached into the boy's basket and pulled out a handful of apples. "You look hungry. Here, take these."

For a moment, the werewolf hesitated, his instincts warring with his desperation. Then, with a snarl, he lunged forward, snatching the apples from her hand. He devoured them in seconds, the sweetness momentarily soothing the ache in his belly. But as the last bite disappeared, a primal rage surged through him, erasing all reason. His eyes glowed with a feral light, and with a roar, he lashed out, his claws slicing through the air.

The old woman gasped, her hand flying to her chest as blood bloomed across her dress. She staggered back, her eyes wide with shock, before collapsing to the ground. The boy screamed, his voice breaking with anguish. "Mother!" He dropped to his knees beside her, shaking her gently. "Wake up! Please, don't leave me! You can't die! You can't!"

Tears streamed down his face, his sobs echoing through the forest. The werewolf stared at the scene, his chest heaving. A flicker of guilt crossed his features, but it was quickly smothered by the cold reality of his actions. "Humans must never know we exist," he muttered, his voice barely audible. He turned away, his claws leaving bloody prints in the dirt.

As he disappeared into the shadows, the boy's grief turned to rage. His small hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. "You'll pay for this!" he screamed, his voice raw and trembling. "I'll make you pay!"

Suddenly, the boy's body began to change. His bones cracked and shifted, his skin sprouting fur as he transformed into a werewolf. With a roar, he lunged at the retreating figure, slamming into him with all the force of his grief and fury. The two werewolves tumbled to the ground, snarling and clawing at each other. The boy's movements were wild, fueled by raw emotion, while the older werewolf fought with the precision of experience.

But the boy's rage gave him strength. With a final, desperate lunge, he sank his claws into the older werewolf's throat, ending the fight in a spray of blood. The forest fell silent once more, the only sound the boy's ragged breathing as he stared at the lifeless body before him.

Terror and exhaustion washed over him, and he fled, leaving the bodies behind as the moon cast its cold light over the scene. 

The next day, a young traveler named Ethan stumbled upon the gruesome sight. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the lifeless body of the old woman, her wounds stark against her pale skin. A short distance away lay the dead werewolf, its throat torn open. Ethan's hands trembled as he knelt beside the woman, his mind racing. Werewolves were real. And they were among them.

Panic surged through him as he ran toward the nearest village, Shadowbrook. He burst into the square, his face pale and his chest heaving. "Werewolves!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "They're real! They're here!"

The villagers gathered around him, their faces a mix of fear and disbelief. The village chief, a burly man named Silas, stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "What are you talking about, boy?"

Ethan's words tumbled out in a frantic rush as he recounted what he had seen. Silas's skepticism faded as he listened, replaced by a grim determination. He gathered a group of men and led them to the forest, their torches casting flickering shadows on the trees.

When they reached the clearing, the sight of the bodies confirmed Ethan's story. The villagers exchanged uneasy glances, their fear palpable. Silas knelt beside the dead werewolf, his jaw clenched. "This changes everything," he muttered.

Silas was unaware that among his own men were werewolves, their true nature hidden beneath human masks. As the group prepared to return to the village, the werewolves, fearing exposure, transformed. Their eyes glowed with savage hunger as they turned on their companions, their snarls echoing through the forest. Silas and his men were slaughtered, their cries of terror cut short.

Ethan, paralyzed by fear, watched as the men fell one by one. With a surge of adrenaline, he turned and ran, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't stop until he reached the Amethyst Kingdom, where he sought refuge with his uncle, King Alfred V. The king listened in stunned silence as Ethan recounted the horrors he had witnessed. The news spread like wildfire, shattering the fragile peace between humans and the mythical creatures.

Also during that day a word spread of a powerful witch and her elf ally who had cast a spell on the werewolf who killed the old woman, preventing it from transforming back into its human form. This solidified the werewolf's status as a monster in the eyes of many, fueling their hatred for humans, witches, and elves.

The werewolves, emboldened by their newfound power, began to reveal their true forms. Witches, seeking revenge for their fallen kin, crafted magical chains to drain the werewolves' strength. The elves, masters of ancient magic, joined the fray, their arrows finding their marks with deadly precision.

The war raged on, each side fueled by hatred and vengeance. Years passed, and the bloodshed seemed endless. King Alfred, weary of the carnage, called for a meeting with the four werewolf kings: Silverhowl, Crimsonheart, Wildfire, and Shadow. They gathered at Shadow Ridge Prison, their faces etched with suspicion and resentment.

Alfred proposed a truce: humans would cease their attacks, and in return, the werewolves would do the same. But the werewolf kings, their hearts hardened by centuries of oppression, refused. Desperate, Alfred offered a compromise: every twenty years, each human family would offer a daughter to the werewolves.

The werewolf kings agreed, their eyes gleaming with the promise of power. The agreement was announced, and while some welcomed the fragile peace, others saw it for what it was: a temporary solution built on fear and sacrifice.

The witches, tired of the endless fighting, laid down their weapons. The elves retreated deeper into the forests, seeking solace in the ancient trees. But the hatred between the races remained, a smoldering ember waiting to ignite.

The agreement couldn't erase the pain, the loss, the years of bloodshed.

The word "peace" became a hollow echo, a fragile hope in a world still consumed by violence. And so, the cycle continued, the legacy of bloodshed and mistrust passed down through generations. True peace remained a distant dream, a flickering light in the darkness of a world torn apart by fear and hatred.