The fury clawing at my insides was difficult to contain. The beast within me thrashed, desperate to break free—starving for vengeance, for blood, for justice long overdue. But then... humanity intervened. Emotion wrapped its cold chains around my rage, restraining the monster within. And just like that, the victory the beast craved—the retribution for the fallen werewolves who had looked to me as their leader—was lost.

  In its place, something else crept in. Something unfamiliar. Raw. Empty. A feeling without a name that consumed my heart, my mind, and my will.

  I stepped into the house, overwhelmed by a strange, suffocating feeling. My mind replayed the moment the volley of arrows rained down on us—sharp, sudden, and merciless. It haunted me, dragging behind it a flood of imagined outcomes—each one a different path I could've taken, each a version of justice that never came to pass.

  The hunger for revenge began to fade, dissolving slowly like smoke from a fire long extinguished. In its place, only silence remained... and the image burned into my memory: a ring of lifeless bodies, blood pooling at my feet, their vacant eyes staring at nothing.

  Piles of corpses surrounded me, and somehow, I was still breathing.

  I descended into the basement, swallowed by a silence so dense it felt sentient, pressing against my skin, breathing down my neck. Each step echoed like a drumbeat of ghosts, trailing behind me. When I reached the Gathering Room, I sank into the seat before my mother's portrait—the only witness left to the unraveling truth:

  That I was becoming the very thing I feared most, a failure.

  Not just as a son, but as a leader.

  And there, surrounded by stillness, I listened—not with my ears, but with something deeper. My soul. I heard the cries of every werewolf who had died tonight. Not as screams—but as scars in the air. Invisible.

  I swept my eyes slowly across the room. Every portrait stared back at me, judging my inability to deliver the victory I had promised. Their lifeless gazes drilled into my soul, fueling the inferno already burning inside me. But before I even realized what I was doing, I was on my feet—tearing them down, one by one. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. I ripped the portraits apart like they had betrayed me, like their silence had sentenced me.

  But it still wasn't enough.

  The hunger for revenge flared within me—rabid, untamed—coursing through my veins like wildfire. I turned on the room itself. Chairs were flung like matchsticks. Tables were reduced to splinters. Even the old accords book—my mother's most sacred possession during her reign—was torn to ribbons by my own hands.

  And then—I heard footsteps, a light touch against the stairs.

  Mel.

  She paused at the last step, eyes wide with shock as she took in the wreckage—the chaos I had unleashed. Everything was decimated. Not a single thing survived my rage.

  "Well," she said, "Hell of a time to drop by. Should I... give you a minute or ten?"

  Her words sliced clean through the chaos, sharper than any blade. The beast inside me froze mid-snarl, held still by her presence alone. My heart, wild and erratic seconds ago, slowed just enough to feel the silence settle. I didn't answer—couldn't. The rage still poured through me like a dam cracked wide open, and I was terrified of what I might say if I opened my mouth.

  Then—she turned, pivoted, and started to walk away.

  "Don't go..." I said, the words torn from me like a last breath. My chest heaved, still trembling from the wreckage I'd created. "Please. Just... stay."

  She exhaled, then stepped into the wreckage of the Gathering Room, settling down by the door like she wasn't afraid of the storm still lingering in me.

  "I get it, Tobias," she said. "You held back... for me. You could've killed her—and you didn't. That means more than you know. I know we don't know each other that well, but... I'm eternally grateful you stopped. I really am."

  She stood and crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. Her fingers found mine, lacing our hands together with quiet intention.

  "I came to see how you were holding up," she said.

  Then, without warning, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my waist, pulling me into her. Her head rested gently against my chest, grounding me in the wreckage I'd created.

  "Thank you," she whispered. "For not killing Utica."

  I closed my eyes as her breath ghosted over my skin, steadying me more than I wanted to admit.

  "You don't understand... it wasn't really me who wanted to end her. It was the beast—screaming for vengeance, bloodthirsty. I'm still trying to learn how to live with it... this thing coiled inside me. Some of it makes sense. Some of it... doesn't. The rest is just instinct and sometimes... unpredictable."

  I paused, drawing in her scent—subtle, alluring—wrapping around me like a quiet storm.

  "All I do know is... Utica's still alive because of you."

  I reached out, my fingers brushing beneath her chin, lifting her face gently until our eyes met. In that breathless moment, time seemed to stop. The chaos faded. The noise within me quieted.

  "I can't explain it," I said. "But the beast... it settles when you're near. Like it senses something in you I haven't yet. It's not fear. It's not submission. It's... peace. And that," I whispered, "terrifies me more than anything."

  "I'm glad I have that effect on you," she said, as a playful smile teased the corners of her lips. "It means... I can give you a little gift."

  "A gift?" I asked, uncertain.

  I hadn't expected that response. I didn't understand what she meant—at least, not until the moment she leaned in, closing the distance between us without hesitation. Then, her lips met mine.

  The world around me froze.

  My heartbeat roared in my ears, pounding like war drums echoing through my chest. Her touch sparked something deep within me—something strange, electric, and dangerously real. It wasn't just a kiss. It was a collision of two storms, and I was caught between them.

  When she pulled back, I found myself lost in her light blue eyes, searching for answers I didn't have. But then—my gaze lifted to the doorway... and froze.

  A figure stood there in silence, fragile and trembling. Her eyes, wide with heartbreak, shimmered before a single tear fell down her cheek. Her head dropped, her body folding inward like the weight was too much.

  "Mother!" Annie cried, her voice shaking. "Can you please... help me back to my room? I didn't know the young master had... company."

  A moment later, Lydia appeared, her eyes widened as she took on the devastation inside the Gathering room. Her tone softened as she approached Annie.

  "I'm here, sweetie," Lydia said. "Let's go."

  I took a deep breath, knowing, I had complicated my situation. Once again, I'd tangled myself deeper into a mess I wasn't sure how to escape.

  Mel watched me, silent for a beat, then offered a faint smile. "Maybe I crossed a line I shouldn't have, and for that, I'm sorry. But don't be too hard on yourself about Annie. She's your first Luna wolf. That title means something. She already holds a part of you—something some of us would give anything for. Whether she realizes it yet or not."

  She stepped back slowly, as if putting physical space between us could undo what had just happened. She stopped just far enough away that her warmth faded, replaced by the cold bite of distance.

  "This should help," she said. "If we talk from here, maybe it'll be easier for you not to get in any more trouble."

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I lowered my head, guilt twisting in my gut. Annie's reaction was burned into my memory—the bitter feeling of a silent heartbreak. I'd have to face it eventually. But not now. Right now, something else clawed at the edges of my thoughts.

  I looked up. "What happened to Utica?"

  "She's been taken in for questioning," Mel said. "But I need to warn you... I don't think the vampires intend to make much of it. Utica's actions were reckless—cost the lives of many werewolves—but the Scarlet Clan? They don't care. Not about justice for your kind. I doubt she'll even face judgment."

  She paused, guilt flickering across her face.

  "I'm sorry, Tobias. I stopped you from ending her. I thought I was preventing something worse, but... if I'd known they'd sweep it under the rug like this, I wouldn't have stopped you. I should've let you take your revenge."

  At her words, something primal stirred inside me. The beast. It rose like smoke in my chest, whispering promises of blood and reckoning.

  "This is good. It means the beast will have its revenge—sooner or later. It can wait. It knows patience. But when the time comes... there will be no mercy."

  Mel's expression shifted. She gave a small smirk, trying to lighten the moment—but there was a flicker of wariness in her eyes.

  "Noted," she said. "Remind me never to catch you on a bad day."

  "You don't have to worry. Not about me. Not about the beast, either. You're important... to both of us."

  She stepped closer, placing her hand gently against my chest.

  "So... is it okay if I stay close to you? I've been cut from the hunter ranks. I'm on my own now. No side. No place."

  Her eyes flickered with uncertainty, but her voice held strong.

  "I know being human in a den full of werewolves is a dangerous line to walk... but I'm willing to risk it. To try. And maybe—one day—you'll make me part of your pack. Until then, I'll take whatever comes. I'll endure it all... just to stay near you."

  I took her hand, raising it slowly to my lips. I pressed a soft kiss against her fingers, letting the silence between us stretch for a moment longer than comfort allowed. My eyes closed as I searched inward for an answer—something, anything—from the beast.

  But there was nothing.

  No stir. No growl. No instinctual pull like there had been with Annie, when she asked to be turned. Just silence. Still and unreadable.

  It unsettled me.

  The beast had roared at the thought of Annie becoming a Luna wolf, and yet now... it was quiet. Strangely quiet. As if it had already made a decision I couldn't hear. As if it didn't want Mel to become one of us.

  The stillness left a strange ache in my chest—an emotion I couldn't name, wrapped in questions I couldn't answer. Something about this didn't add up... and I needed to know why.

  "You can stay with me," I said, tracing my thumb along the back of her hand. "I'll make sure everyone knows. No one will lay a finger on you. Not while I draw breath."

  Her smile bloomed, warm and grateful.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  A soft footstep echoed through the ruined Gathering Room.

  Vantos stepped inside, his gaze sweeping across the wreckage with amusement. "Well," he said with a smirk, "someone clearly needed to blow off some steam. I could've scheduled a sparring match with Gaston—he's been begging for a shot at you."

  "There's no need for that," I said. "I had my moment. It's done now. Behind me."

  Vantos nodded, though his expression didn't shift from the carnage. "Glad to hear it. But we still need to talk. And judging by this mess... I'm guessing this wasn't some random outburst."

  He stepped further in, careful not to trip over the shattered remains of a chair.

  "Just so you know—Lisa and the restoration crew won't be helping you clean this up. They're tied up prepping the town for recovery once the culling ends. This one's on you, Tobias."

  "I'll deal with it later," I said, glancing around the wreckage.

  Vantos shifted his gaze to Mel, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the torn, battle-worn state of her hunter uniform.

  "Oh, dear," he said with a grin, "someone's having a serious wardrobe malfunction."

  He stepped toward her, and with a casual flick of his index finger, the fabric of her clothes began to mend itself—threads weaving, seams stitching, until the outfit looked untouched.

  "Much better," Vantos said, giving her a once-over. "Although... black doesn't suit you anymore. Especially now that you're off the hunter payroll. Let me guess—Chief Harrow threw a baby tantrum?"

  Mel crossed her arms, unbothered. "I just refused to become a hybrid," she said. Then, her eyes found mine again. "I have other plans."

  Vantos chuckled. "Careful, young master. Luna wolves don't usually like to share. Very territorial, very dramatic." He turned his attention back to Mel. "Now... let's do something about that dreadful black."

  He tapped her outfit once more, and the dark fabric shimmered, rippling with light before shifting into a clean, radiant white. Subtle patterns of silver etched themselves across the cloth, glowing faintly like whispers of old magic.

  "There," he said, stepping back with a satisfied grin. "You look outstanding in white. Let's add a few runes, and your fashion overhaul will be complete."

  Mel grew curious about his remark. "Thank you... but what are the runes for?"

  Vantos smirked like she'd asked something delightfully naive. "You think you can channel magic and not let the world be aware you're using it recklessly? These runes will help regulate the amount of life force you pour into your arrows. Without them, you're playing with unstable energy."

  He circled her slowly, observing how the runes glow with intensity. "Your little stunt in the forest? That was a warning, Mel. You're lucky you didn't burn yourself out. You're still human. And pushing that much raw power through your body without control will take its toll," He shook his head. "You'll age faster. Your life force will crack and splinter. It's like tossing gasoline into a fire—you get a big bang, sure, but it leaves you defenseless and fragile."

  He paused in front of her, eyes narrowing just slightly. "And I'd hate to see a gorgeous woman like you waste away because she didn't bother to learn how to manage magic properly."

  Mel nodded. "That's... unexpectedly thoughtful of you. Thanks."

  Vantos grinned. "I'm not entirely heartless. I'll just charge the young master for my services later." His gaze flicked toward the surrounding chaos, filled with distaste. "Though I do have one rule—never hold important conversations surrounded by clutter."

  He knelt and pressed his palm to the floor. A glowing sigil erupted beneath him, humming with power. The room quaked, not violently, but with a low, steady pulse. Splintered wood snapped back together, glass reformed in glittering waves, and every destroyed piece of furniture began to reconstruct itself, piece by piece, until the Gathering Room looked untouched—pristine.

  "Chairs!" Vantos said, plopping down at the table with a theatrical sigh of contentment. "Gods, I love chairs."

  Then his tone shifted again—casual, but with an undertone of gravity. "Now, let's get back to that conversation we need to have," he said, casting a glance at Mel.

  "Speak freely," I said without hesitation. "She's one of us."

  Vantos leaned back in his chair, the smirk fading from his face. "I'm afraid I can't, young master. Not without his permission."

  "Permission from who?"

  Suddenly, a small creature scurried onto the table—a chameleon, its skin shifting in a mesmerizing pattern of colors as it crept along the polished surface. Each step left a shimmer of light in its wake, like a whisper of magic.

  Vantos behavior changed instantly. The usual sarcasm vanished, replaced by a rare seriousness. He lifted a hand slowly and pointed at the creature.

  "Permission from the Grandmaster himself."

  Then, the chameleon began to shift.

  Its body stretched, limbs elongating and reshaping. The vibrant, shifting colors of its skin began to settle into flowing patterns as the creature grew—rapidly—until it no longer resembled a chameleon at all. In a matter of seconds, a man stood in its place.

  He wore a tunic woven in a swirl of iridescent hues, each color shifting subtly like light on water. In his hand, a staff pulsed with raw power. His head was bald, his stare was sharp and intimidating. Magic radiated from him in waves, ancient and undeniable.

  The man looked at me first, giving a brief nod of acknowledgment.

  Then he turned to Vantos and, without a word, smacked him on the head with the end of his staff.

  Vantos recoiled, rubbing his skull. "What the hell was that for, you old fart?!"

  "You failed to follow instructions. Again," the Grandmaster said. "You deserved that."

  Unexpectedly, the table beneath the Grandmaster began to groan. A deep crack formed, splitting the wood directly beneath him. In an instant, the table gave way, splitting clean in two.

  Vantos threw his hands up, exasperated. "What the hell are you doing?! I just fixed that!"

  "It's obvious you didn't channel nearly enough life force into the reconstruction," the Grandmaster barked, gesturing at the shattered table. "You keep failing, Vantos. Over and over again. It's exhausting to witness, truly."

  He shook his head, then held out his hand. "Now stop whining and help this old man up."

  Vantos rolled his eyes but reached out, pulling the Grandmaster to his feet. "Maybe if you didn't collapse every surface you stand on, I wouldn't have to keep rebuilding them."

  The Grandmaster dusted off his tunic with flair. "You'll need sharper instincts than that if you ever want back into the Trade Clan. A little glamor magic and a wardrobe change won't cut it."

  Vantos sighed and folded his arms. "Alright, alright. Can we cool it with the lectures? I didn't contact you to grovel my way back into the clan—I'm over all that."

  The Grandmaster gave a sly smirk. "Oh, sure. And I'm guessing that little 'hello' call you made last night was purely social, right?"

  Vantos narrowed his eyes. "Forget it, old man. Focus!"

  The banter finally fizzled out, replaced by a heavy stillness as the Grandmaster turned his gaze back to me.

  "I'm sorry about the table," he said. "Little Orie will fix it once the message is delivered."

  "Little Orie?" I asked, confused.

  The moment the name left my lips, Vantos groaned, visibly annoyed.

  "It's an old nickname the elders gave him," he said, noticing Vantos' annoyed expression. The Grandmaster placed his hand over his mouth and then whispered, "Please, don't ask."

  The Grandmaster waved it off. "Ancient history. The point is, that I had to mask my presence from the Special Task Force just to be here. This isn't a casual visit—I bring an urgent message. One that demands your immediate attention."

  Without a word, Vantos traced a sigil across the broken surface of the table. Light flared beneath his fingers, golden and fluid, spreading outward like veins. In a heartbeat, the table was whole again—clean, seamless, and solid.

  Talos gave an approving nod as a faint smile crept onto his face.

  "Well done," he said, then turned his gaze back to me. "Now... allow me to properly introduce myself."

  He stepped forward, pulling out a chair and taking a seat, his staff resting against the table. "My name is Talos Windsor. I am the Grandmaster of the Warlock Trade Clan. And three days ago, I received a message... not through our usual channels but delivered by direct spectral courier from the Revenants of the Ashen Circle. The message was sent by none other than the Grand Lich himself—Valdus Cornelian. And the letter, Tobias..." He fixed me with a pointed look. "...was addressed to you. Specifically."