Everyone had gathered at the front of the estate, cloaked beneath the blood-orange sky as sundown bled into the horizon. The time had come—to lay Harold to rest.

  I stood in silence, watching the crowd swell with unease and curiosity. From the edges of the woods and the creeping shadows, more werewolves emerged—dozens of them, quiet and watchful, drawn by something they hadn't seen in years... unity.

  "Well, well," Vantos whispered beside me, arms crossed as he surveyed the growing mass. "It seems you keep becoming quite popular among your kind. It baffles me everytime I see this many werewolves gathered in one place. This... is a good sign."

  "Let's hope he can keep them in line," the Grandmaster added. "We cannot forget where we're going. The Ashen Circle has made its position clear—any threat to their domain will be met with retaliation. If these wolves act without discipline, it could spark a war before the funeral even begins."

  At that moment, Derrick and Antolio stepped forward, their expressions grim as they knelt before me.

  "We bring urgent news, my lord," Derrick said.

  "Speak, Derrick. What's happened?"

  He lifted his head. "These werewolves—many of them have been driven from their territory near Moonshade Hollow and exiled by something very powerful. They came seeking sanctuary... protection from you, their Alpha. I sent Andrea this morning to assist Alphonse with preparations at the Hollow. She was also ordered to scout the area. But—" he hesitated, "—we've lost contact. It's been hours."

  Derrick cast a glance over his shoulder.

  "Not long after that... they started arriving. The exiled. The wounded. The terrified. One of them's in bad shape. Her name's Alexi. She claims she escaped something... violent. You'll want to hear her story for yourself."

  "Tobias," Mel said, nodding toward a small gathering of werewolves encircling a figure on the ground. "That must be her."

  We moved quickly, cutting through the camp toward the tight cluster of bodies. A hush fell over the group as we approached, the murmurs fading into silence. Without a word, they stepped aside, allowing us through.

  In the center lay a woman—young, battered, barely conscious. Her breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps. Blood matted her hair and clung to the torn fabric of her clothes. Whatever she'd run from, it had nearly finished her.

  Vantos didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, retrieving a glowing vial from inside his robes. The liquid inside shimmered like starlight.

  "Help me, young master," he said. "She's taken a brutal beating."

  I knelt beside her, cradling her limp body. I tilted her head back gently as Vantos poured the shimmering potion between her cracked lips.

  Almost immediately, her wounds began to knit themselves closed. Her skin shifted, healing in waves as the magic pulsed through her veins. But then—my gaze caught something else.

  Her shoulder.

  Black veins radiated from a festering wound, pulsing unnaturally beneath her skin. It spread in slow, jagged patterns, like ink bleeding through parchment.

  "Vantos, her shoulder. Look at it. There's something wrong... it's spreading."

  He turned, following my gaze—and his eyes widened with recognition. His face, so often unreadable, now twisted in dread.

  He leaned closer, silent for a moment. Then, without meeting my eyes, he continued pouring the last of the potion into her mouth.

  "We're wasting our time. This potion won't help her," Vantos said.

  I stared at him. "Why not?"

  The Grandmaster stepped in, dropping to one knee beside the injured woman. His hand hovered over the blackened wound, his expression darkening as he traced the spreading corruption with his eyes.

  "This isn't just poison," he said. "And it's not a wound. She's cursed. This magic... It's the mark of a dark energy wielder. The curse is a tether—she's being drained, slowly. Her life force is being siphoned, fed directly to the caster. A necromancer."

  "You're saying someone's feeding off her?"

  "Yes," Vantos said. "But... this might not be entirely bad news."

  The Grandmaster turned to him sharply. "You're not thinking of—"

  Talos halted as he watched Vantos raise a hand and press his palm over the cursed wound. The air hissed as a sigil burned into the woman's flesh, etched in searing light and arcane lines. She convulsed, breath hitching, but didn't wake.

  "Vantos!" the Grandmaster snapped. "You seared a binding sigil onto her without her consent. That's reckless—even for you."

  Vantos didn't look up, his hand steady as the sigil locked in place. "Look, old man," he said with a dry grin. "If we waited for her to wake up and give permission, we'd miss our one chance to track the bastard draining her. Ever heard the saying... better to ask for forgiveness than permission?"

  The Grandmaster scowled but held his tongue. The sigil on the woman's skin pulsed once, then flared violently. The black veins writhed in response, like something alive—and afraid.

  Then it happened.

  A faint green mist rose from the cursed wound, swirling into the air and catching on the dying breeze. It drifted like smoke across the gathering, then turned and slithered into the forest.

  "Now," Vantos said. "Let's see who we just caught."

  Vantos watched the strange mist for only a heartbeat before vanishing in a flash of movement, nothing more than a blur as he chased the spectral trail into the trees.

  The Grandmaster took a measured step back from the crowd. From within his robe, he drew a red crystal and let it fall. It struck the ground with a heavy clack—then cracked open the earth beneath it.

  Molten lava burst upward, glowing with primal fury as the ground split. Flames erupted from the fissure, and from within the inferno, something rose.

  A horse emerged, its body wreathed in fire, its hooves scorching the ground as they landed. Its eyes glowed like twin suns, and its skin cracked with heat. Smoke curled from its nostrils like the breath of a volcano.

  "Arson!" the Grandmaster called. "My loyal familiar. It's been quite some time since we've seen each other, eye to eye."

  The fiery steed reared with a sound like splitting stone.

  The Grandmaster quickly mounted the fiery horse, then turned to me. "I suggest you appoint someone to hold this ground and ride with us, young master. Vantos is fast, but even he will struggle if this necromancer is as skilled as I suspect. Little Orie is brave—but I believe he will not be enough to stop this necromancer."

  "I'll be right behind you, Grandmaster," I said.

  Talos gave me a sharp grin. "Very well. We'll see you in the Hollow. Arson! Scorch the skies!"

  In response, the fiery steed released a thunderous roar. Flames surged upwards as brilliant, burning wings erupted from its back, stretching outward like molten banners of radiant fire. With an explosive rush of heat and a blazing trail illuminating the gathering darkness, Arson soared into the sky, swiftly vanishing into the encroaching night.

  I turned to Derrick and Antolio. "Stay here. Guard the estate. Tend to the wounded. It'll be too dangerous if you come."

  They both nodded, but before I could take a step, a cold hand gripped my leg. As I looked down, the wounded woman had opened her eyes. Her fingers trembled, but her voice was clear, raw with desperation.

  "Master... please... don't leave. The necromancer... he's too powerful. My friends—they didn't even have time to fight back. They... they were slaughtered."

  "Do you know what happened to the rest of my people?" I asked. "Alphonse? Andrea?"

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't think... anyone made it out alive."

  Two men stepped forward from the crowd and knelt beside Alexi. One of them placed a hand on her shoulder, then looked up at me.

  "We'll take care of her, young master," he said. "But you must go. Our people are in danger—if they still live. This necromancer... he does not fight fair. He commands an army of skeletal wolves, twisted by dark magic. They'll attack everything that moves."

  "Are you able to protect these people in our absence?" I asked.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The man didn't answer with words. Instead, he stood, and in the blink of an eye, his body shimmered—bones cracking, muscles shifting. Fur bloomed across his limbs like smoke curling in reverse. In moments, where he had stood now paced a massive grey wolf.

  The second man remained in human form. He stepped forward, glancing at me. "We'll watch over the wounded. You're walking into something ancient, something that won't flinch at the sight of a pack. This necromancer... he is no ordinary warlock."

  "Then I leave you both in charge. Protect these people with your lives. That's all I ask."

  The man bowed slightly. "My name is Willis," he said. "And the wolf moving through the crowd—that's my brother, Phil. We will look after these people; you have my word."

  I nodded. "I'm counting on you." Then, I glanced at Derrick. "Let's go."

  "I'll be watching from the trees," Mel added. "There's no chance I'm letting you fight alone."

  I reached for her hand, drawing it gently to my lips, and pressed a kiss against her skin.

  "Be careful," I said.

  We pursued the strange green mist deep into the shadowed forest, but a sudden, potent scent brought me to an abrupt halt. It carried the unmistakable tang of werewolf, but richer, darker, and steeped in ancient power.

  "Young master, are you alright?" Derrick's voice trembled slightly.

  "There's something dangerous ahead—a werewolf far stronger than any I've ever sensed. We must hurry; Vantos and the others are in peril."

  My blood surged with adrenaline, muscles rippling and swelling as my heartbeat thundered a frantic warning. Moments later, I emerged upon a horrifying scene that turned my blood cold. Towering before me stood a figure cloaked in pristine white fur, effortlessly holding Vantos aloft by the throat. Terror seized me completely, immobilizing me as my eyes glanced at the sinister markings etched into his flesh—the same dreaded symbols of the demon wolf that cursed my own body when I transformed. The chilling realization froze my heart, filling me with an indescribable dread that threatened to shatter my resolve.

  A surge of fury erupted within me at the sight of Vantos desperately struggling against the man's iron grip. My body shifted instantaneously, the dark symbols of the Demon Wolf rapidly covering my flesh. I unleashed a thunderous, savage howl, immediately drawing the attention of the towering werewolf.

  "Let him go! Now!" I roared.

  A sinister grin spread slowly across the werewolf's face, and his piercing red eyes met mine with malevolent amusement. "Welcome to the party... my son."

  Beside me, Derrick transformed quickly into his own Demon Wolf form and charged recklessly at the white-furred adversary.

  "Derrick! Wait!"

  The white-furred werewolf hurled Vantos at Derrick with savage force, halting his charge mid-stride. The blow was brutal—Derrick collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the ground, his body reverting to human form. Antolio dashed forward, grabbing both Derrick and Vantos, dragging them to safety and away from the monstrous presence looming before us.

  "Leave," the white werewolf growled, his voice deep, cold, and commanding. "If you value your miserable life—and the worthless lives of your followers—turn around and never return."

  A white werewolf... and those marks—unmistakable. The brand of the Demon Wolf. This isn't just anyone. This is my father. Curtis Reinhart.

  "I won't," I snapped. "I'm here for my people... and to lay Harold to rest. You, of all people, should remember who he was."

  Curtis stepped forward, the heavy thud of his foot landing atop a fallen tree echoing like a warning. He looked down at me with venom in his eyes.

  "You think memories matter in this godforsaken place?" he spat. "Harold was filth. A scheming, backstabbing parasite who wormed his way into the clan, poisoning minds with his lies. He wanted power—nothing more. And he would've burned us all to get it. You talk about a funeral?" He sneered, baring his fangs. "He deserves to rot in the dirt like the traitor he was."

  His gaze sharpened, cold and unrelenting, a cruel grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

  "Don't worry... you'll see him soon enough."

  "Curtis," I growled. "What did you do to Harold's body?"

  He threw his head back and laughed, cruel and hollow.

  "Let's just say... I have a friend who enjoys playing with corpses. And unless you want to join Harold sooner than planned, don't make me regret sparing your pathetic life. Turn around and walk away. Whatever happens in Moonshade Hollow is none of your concern!"

  With a violent snap, Curtis ripped a massive branch from the fallen tree and hurled it at me. Fury surged through my veins. My claws lengthened instinctively, striking the branch in mid-air, shattering it in a burst of splinters. As debris rained down around us, I surged forward, claws slashing, aiming straight for him.

  But I didn't land a single blow.

  Curtis caught my hands in mid-air, effortlessly, like I was nothing—and shoved me backward like a child.

  "Your eyes..." he muttered with disgust. "There's no bloodlust in them. No killer instinct. You're hesitating." His tone twisted into a snarl. "You won't get a second chance out here. This isn't a world of mercy—it's a graveyard. Out here, it's kill or be killed. There's no family left. No friendship. Just monsters fighting monsters. So if you think you've got what it takes to end me—then stop holding back and do it!"

  He lunged—and in an instant, he was right in front of me.

  But I didn't raise my claws this time.

  "I don't want to kill you!" I shouted. "I want answers!"

  Curtis froze. His blood-red eyes bore into mine, glowing with rage and pain. His expression shifted—just for a moment.

  "I loved your mother more than anything in this cursed world," he said. "The day she chose to run away with Harold... that was the day she ripped the honor from my name."

  He turned away, the weight of the past dragging at his shoulders as he walked toward the shadows.

  "Don't get in my way in Moonshade Hollow," he warned without looking back. "You'll only die for nothing."

  A sudden, piercing howl tore from deep within my chest—raw, primal, unstoppable. Images of my mother flooded my mind: her warmth, her fear, her final goodbye. The helplessness I'd buried inside erupted, no longer containable. My body ignited with a violent surge of energy, white-hot and blinding.

  I launched myself at Curtis, every ounce of hesitation replaced by a single driving force: revenge.

  "There it is!" Curtis roared with twisted delight. "That's how a Reinhart faces a challenge!"

  My claws swung wide, and as they sliced through the air, I felt it—the Demon Wolf. Its power flooded into me, fierce and unrelenting, like fire coursing through my veins. It was intoxicating. The rage, the fury—it sharpened my senses, hardened my muscles. I was no longer just faster—I was something else entirely.

  Curtis staggered back, forced into retreat by the sheer force of each strike. For the first time, he was on the defensive. Every blow drove him further back until—

  Slash.

  My claws tore across his chest. Blood spilled freely from the gash, only to vanish as the wound sealed itself in seconds.

  "Yes! YES!" Curtis bellowed, drunk on pain and pleasure. "It's been years since I've felt this alive! We should do this every day—for the rest of our lives!"

  I froze.

  This wasn't strength. This was madness.

  "You're gone," I said, breathless, staring at the twisted joy in his eyes. "You've lost yourself, Curtis. You don't control the beast—the beast owns you. Everything you do... everything you've become... It's not you anymore."

  He stood there, grinning like a rabid animal, chest heaving—not with fury, but with twisted exhilaration. That look in his eyes... it wasn't hatred. It was hunger. He wasn't fighting me anymore. He was chasing sensation. Any sensation. And in that pursuit, he had lost everything.

  Even himself.

  "You?" Curtis scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think you've got what it takes to be the Ultima Alpha in Adams?"

  He took a slow step forward, his smile turning razor-sharp.

  "You're not a leader—you're a child playing pretend. A little boy, dressing himself in the skin of something greater and parading around with delusions of legacy. You haven't earned your place. You haven't bled for it."

  He leaned in, voice dropping to a snarl.

  "Your ignorance will be the death of you."

  I lunged—ready to finish it—when something flew through the air and clattered against my hand. A tin can, half-dented, smeared with a thick, pungent paste. Wolfsbane.

  I turned sharply to see Vantos, bloodied and swaying, barely on his feet, one hand clutching his torn chest.

  "Show him no mercy," he rasped before collapsing again.

  I stared at the can, hesitating for a heartbeat, then twisted it open. The sharp, bitter scent stung my nose. Without another thought, I dragged my claws through the paste. Pain lanced through my fingers as the wolfsbane seared into my skin—venom for our kind. The toxin raced through me like fire through dry brush, eating into muscle, vein, and will.

  But I held on to my fury.

  With a roar, I charged at Curtis, swinging viciously, each strike fueled by raw pain and rage. My claws tore through flesh, leaving lines of burning rot where the wolfsbane touched. Curtis flinched—staggered.

  "What—what is this?" he growled, breath faltering.

  I stood before him, my hands still smoldering from the poison coursing through my skin.

  "It's over, Curtis. This doesn't need to continue. That burning in your blood—that's concentrated wolfsbane. Not enough to kill you, but more than enough to bring you to your knees."

  Curtis laughed through clenched teeth, even as he trembled.

  "Then you'll fall too. You poisoned yourself just to lecture me? Pathetic." His eyes narrowed. "You had your chance, and you wasted it."

  Then, behind him, bones creaked.

  A wolf's skeleton leapt from the shadows, clattering across the ground. Beside it, an undead grey wolf padded forward with glowing, hollow eyes.

  Curtis's expression turned into a dark grin. "Ah. My partner arrived. I hope this little family reunion doesn't get too emotional."

  The undead wolf groaned—a low, guttural sound of something unnatural pulling itself back into being. Bones cracked and shifted, limbs elongating, muscles knitting over exposed bone. Flesh reassembled itself, sinew and skin twisting into place with grotesque precision.

  And then... he stood. Walking again among the living, as if death had never claimed him.

  His eyes glowed with a sickly, unnatural green.

  Harold.

  A knot tightened in my stomach, turning to ice as I watched him fully transform from wolf to man.

  "How... how is this possible?" I whispered. "How can he turn into a man if he's already dead?"

  Then I felt it—a cold breath against my spine, subtle yet unmistakable. The burning in my veins began to recede. The wolfsbane... was losing its hold.

  Which could only mean one thing.

  Curtis was healing. Fast.

  "You feel it, don't you?" Curtis said, stepping closer, smug satisfaction in every syllable. "Your little secret weapon to weaken me just faded. Your strength is real. I won't deny it. You came at me like a true Reinhart, but you're still not ready. And now?"

  He gestured to Harold, who stood like a grotesque shadow of the man he once was, glowing eyes devoid of soul. Behind them, more shapes began to move, rising from the mist, crawling from the dark.

  "You're outnumbered. Outmatched."

  His voice hardened, teeth flashing beneath his grin.

  "I'll say it again: leave. Drag your bleeding, broken friends with you. Run as far as you can... before he arrives."

  I stood my ground, breathing deep, forcing the wildfire inside me to settle. The claws retracted. The raw strength, the primal fury—they faded as I let the transformation go. My bones cracked back into place, fur dissolved from my skin, and in seconds, I stood before Curtis, not as a beast but as a man.

  "I don't want to fight you," I said. "Not anymore. This isn't you. It's your instincts, the rage—the beast behind your eyes, it's trying to keep you under control. You don't have to be a slave to it... We don't have to be enemies."

  The truth in those words hit harder than any blow I could've landed. Curtis's eyes widened, and he clenched his fists.

  "God dammit, son! You don't understand!" he roared, panic cracking his voice. "Get the fuck out of here! Now!"

  And then... it arrived.

  A thick, roiling mist spilled across the ground, dark as pitch and cold as death. Skeletal wolves began to crawl out of the fog, their hollow eyes glowing green, their snarls whispering of death and decay. They circled Curtis like loyal sentries from hell.

  From the deepest shadows stepped a figure, robed in ancient, tattered cloth, the stench of time and rot clinging to him like a shroud. In one hand, he held a wand—crafted from the skulls of slain wolves, bound together with sinew and blackened bone. His eyes pulsed with swirling green mist, alive with corruption and dark power.

  He smiled—a thin, venomous curve.

  "It seems," the hooded man said, his voice a deathly echo, "I've arrived just in time."