The forest is alive.
Not with the usual sounds—rustling leaves, distant owls, the whisper of the wind through the trees. Something else moves in the darkness. Something watching.
The eyes remain fixed on us—glowing red, unblinking, scattered through the undergrowth like embers in the night.
Soren stiffens beside me. "What the hell are we looking at?"
I don't answer. My muscles coil, instincts screaming that whatever these things are, they aren't friendly.
Then, the voice comes again—low, gravelly, but unmistakably sentient.
"You think you are the only ones wronged, Kade?"
I step forward, baring my fangs. "Who are you?"
A shape emerges from the gloom, stepping into the moonlight.
A werewolf—but not one of ours.
His fur is black as midnight, his eyes burning crimson, scars slashed deep across his snout and chest. Others follow, stepping forward from the shadows, each more battle-worn than the last.
Survivors.
No—ghosts.
Soren's breath is ragged. "They should be dead."
The black-furred werewolf—their leader—tilts his head. "And yet, we live." His voice is edged with something between amusement and hatred.
"Who are you?" I ask again, my claws twitching.
His lips peel back in something not quite a smile.
"We are what you will become."
A low growl rumbles in my chest. "I don't speak in riddles. Say what you mean."
The leader's eyes narrow, his amusement fading. "You believe you're the first to rise against Blackthorn?" He gestures to the others—scarred, hardened. "We fought back. We lost. And when the lords were done hunting us, they cast us out. Branded us traitors. Survivours."
Soren scoffs. "You're telling me you let them win?"
A sharp snarl erupts from one of the red-eyed wolves. "We did not let them win."
The leader raises a hand, silencing his packmate. His eyes never leave mine. "We learned that revenge is not enough."
I hold his gaze. "Then what is?"
Silence. Then, his voice drops to a whisper. "Fear."
Something about the way he said it sets my nerves ablaze.
Soren shifts uneasily. "Enough with the cryptic bullshit. Either you're with us or you're in our way."
The leader chuckles. "You still think this is your war to fight." He steps closer, the air thick with the scent of blood and something older. "Tell me, Kade—do you even know why Blackthorn hunts us?"
My jaw tightens. "Because we're monsters to them."
His red eyes flicker. "No. Because we are their greatest threat."
I narrow my gaze. "Explain."
He gestures around us, at the burned remnants of our escape, at the bodies left behind. "The nobles don't just hunt for sport. They hunt to weaken us. To cull our numbers, control our bloodlines. But you? You broke their game. You made them afraid."
Soren snorts. "Good. Let them be afraid."
The leader shakes his head. "No, you don't understand. Fear makes them dangerous." He steps closer, his voice dropping low. "They will not run. They will eradicate you."
A cold weight settles in my gut.
I glance at Soren, at the others who escaped with us. Half our numbers are injured. We have no weapons, no supplies, just our fury and the rising moon. We aren't ready for a war.
The leader watches me, measuring my reaction. Then, he gives me one final warning.
"If you want to survive what comes next, you will need more than rage. You will need an army."
My claws flex. "And where do we find one?"
His smile is sharp as a blade. "You don't. You make one."
The words settle like a storm in my chest.
A new kind of hunt has begun.
And this time, we will not be the prey.
A twig snaps in the darkness.
Every head whips toward the sound. The air turns razor-sharp with tension.
Then—a voice. Cold. Ruthless. Familiar.
"Found you."
I know that voice. Alric.
The air tenses, thick with his presence.
Then—an arrow whistles through the dark.
Pain detonates in my shoulder, sharp and searing. Silver. Fire burns through my veins, spreading like poison. I stagger, my vision tilting as the agony crashes over me.
Soren shouts my name. My knees almost buckle, but I force myself to stay upright. Not here. Not now.
Alric steps forward, crossbow still raised, a smirk curling his lips. His golden hunting cloak billows behind him, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. He never misses a shot.
"Still standing?" His voice is mockingly smooth. "Good. I do love a challenge."
I snarl, yanking the arrow from my shoulder. Blood spurts, hot and thick. My body protests, the silver slowing my healing, but I ignore it.
Movement flickers above. The red-eyed werewolves—wild, feral, born of twisted experiments—vanish into the trees. The fight isn't theirs.
But its ours.
The rustling overhead shifts, deliberate. A trap.
Too late.
From the treetops, armored hunters drop like shadows. Their blades glint in the moonlight, forming a deadly ring around us.
Alric lowers his crossbow, smirking.
"Now, let's make this interesting."