Rowan didn't sleep that night.
He sat on the wooden floor of his small cabin, back pressed against the wall, his thoughts racing. The elder's words wouldn't leave him.
You are the last of the Shadowfangs.
Everything he thought he knew about himself—his bloodline, his weakness—was a lie. He wasn't just some wolf-born failure. His ancestors had been powerful. Feared. But why? What made them so different from the rest?
The dagger lay in front of him, the golden stone in its hilt gleaming faintly under the moonlight seeping through the window. His fingers twitched toward it, hesitant. The moment he had touched it at the elder's hut, he had felt something stir deep inside him. Something old.
Would it happen again?
With a slow breath, Rowan reached out and wrapped his fingers around the dagger's hilt.
A rush of heat shot up his arm.
His chest tightened, his breath catching. Then—darkness.
A powerful force yanked him down into a vast, empty void. The world around him vanished, swallowed by shadows. Then, all at once, color exploded into his vision.
A battlefield stretched before him.
The sky churned with dark storm clouds, lightning flashing in the distance. The ground was soaked in blood, bodies scattered like broken dolls. The air was thick with the scent of iron and smoke, and the wind carried the dying howls of wolves.
Rowan's heart pounded.
Then he saw it.
A massive black wolf stood in the center of the battlefield. It was larger than any wolf he had ever seen, its fur darker than midnight, its golden eyes glowing with something raw and ancient. Power radiated from it, a force so strong that Rowan could feel it pressing against his skin.
The wolf lifted its head, eyes locking onto him.
You are the last.
The words didn't come from its mouth, but they thundered through Rowan's mind like a command from the gods themselves.
A sudden, blinding pain shot through his chest. It was unlike anything he had ever felt—like something deep inside him was breaking apart and trying to claw its way out.
Rowan gasped, his vision blurring. His knees buckled, the world around him spinning.
Then—he was back.
Rowan jolted upright, chest heaving, his entire body trembling. His skin was damp with sweat, his fingers still wrapped around the dagger. The golden stone on its hilt pulsed, as if beating in rhythm with his own heart.
He pressed a hand against his chest, still feeling the lingering ache.
This wasn't a dream.
Something inside him was waking up.
And he had no idea what would happen when it did.
The Next Morning
The sun had barely begun to rise when Rowan left his cabin, the dagger strapped to his belt beneath his cloak. His legs were unsteady, his mind still trapped in the vision from the night before.
He needed answers.
The village was quiet as he made his way toward the elder's hut. Most of the pack was still asleep, but a few early risers threw him the usual looks of disdain. He ignored them. He had bigger concerns now.
When he reached the elder's hut, he didn't hesitate. He shoved the door open and stepped inside.
The elder was waiting for him.
"You saw it, didn't you?" the old man asked, not looking up from the herbs he was grinding in a stone bowl.
Rowan swallowed. "The black wolf. The battlefield. It spoke to me."
The elder nodded, as if he had expected this. "Then the memories are beginning to surface."
Rowan tensed. "Memories?"
The elder set down the bowl and finally met Rowan's gaze. "Your blood carries the past, even if your mind does not remember it yet. The Shadowfangs were not ordinary wolves, Rowan. You are not ordinary."
Rowan clenched his jaw. "Then what am I?"
The elder studied him for a moment before motioning for him to sit.
"You are the last descendant of a bloodline that was meant to be erased. The Alphas of today fear what they do not understand, and they did everything in their power to bury your kind's existence."
Rowan's hands curled into fists. "Then why am I still here?"
The elder's gaze darkened. "Because fate is not so easily rewritten."
Rowan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I still don't understand. I was born here. My mother—"
"—was not one of them," the elder interrupted. "Your mother was the last of the true Shadowfangs. She hid among the pack, pretending to be ordinary. But your blood cannot be silenced forever."
Rowan stared at him, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mother… had been hiding?
He had always assumed she was just a quiet, gentle woman. She had died when he was young, taken by sickness before he ever got the chance to ask her about their family. Had she known? Had she always known what he was?
The elder continued, "Your father's blood is weak, but your mother's was strong. And now, it is waking inside you."
Rowan ran a hand over his face, trying to steady himself. Everything was changing too fast.
"What happens now?" he asked finally.
The elder leaned back in his chair. "Now, you learn the truth. And you prepare."
Rowan frowned. "Prepare for what?"
The elder's expression was grave.
"For the moment your wolf awakens."
Rowan's breath caught.
Because deep inside him, beneath his skin and bones, beneath everything he had ever known—something was stirring.