The cold night breeze caressed my skin, carrying with it a scent so distinct, so overwhelming, that my eyes snapped open immediately.

  Cinnamon and blood.

  It lingered in the air, weaving its way through my senses, wrapping around me like an invisible shroud. It wasn't just inside my bedroom—it was everywhere, enveloping every inch of me, raising the hairs on my arms.

  And then, I became aware of her.

  Before the sun could break the horizon, before the morning could claim the night, I found myself face-to-face with her lips—almost touching mine. Her body was draped over me, resting against my stomach.

  "Boo!"

  Dahlia's voice was playful, teasing. Then, she grinned.

  In an instant, she catapulted herself off the bed, landing swiftly beside it without so much as a whisper of sound—silent, predatory, deadly. Not even the sepulchral silence of the house stirred at her movements.

  "Good morning to you too, Dahlia," I said, keeping my tone low. "Have you come to dispose of me?"

  "I haven't made that decision yet. But it is in the back of my head."

  I smirked. "Then why did you jump off the bed? I was starting to enjoy having you that close."

  Without hesitation, she sprang into the air again, landing right back on top of me with a feather-light touch.

  "You mean this close?" she whispered, leaning in, her frigid lips barely brushing against mine as her breath sent an icy shiver down my neck. She closed her eyes, teasing, moving her nose gently around my lips.

  "Or did you mean closer like this?"

  Suddenly, she closed the distance completely, her lips pressing against mine.

  I barely had time to process the sensation before she pulled back, glancing at my eyes as if it were the last time she looked at them.

  "I'm surprised," I said. "You were playing hard to get."

  She rested her head against my chest, her fingers tracing delicate patterns along my arm. Her touch was cold, yet something was soothing about it—something real.

  "You're so warm," she said, as I noticed a hint of sadness in her voice. "I'm not sure if I can get this close to you anymore... not now that you have a new Luna Wolf in your clan."

  "As a man, I didn't have a choice in that matter. The Demon Wolf selects them as he pleases. I have no control over that." Her fingers stilled for a moment, then resumed their soft movements. "I'm only beginning to understand my dual nature. Learning how to manage and balance this entity inside me. If I want it to bestow its power upon me when I need it most... I have to learn how to appease it."

  Dahlia let out a humorless chuckle. "It's irrelevant, whether I think about it or not," she said. "It's not like I could ever have a life with you. I'm a vampire—a soulless, undead being. I do not age. I cannot reproduce. And yet... it's all I think about lately."

  A silence stretched between us, filled with words neither of us could say. Then, she sat up, shifting just enough to create a small distance between us.

  "I came here this early for a reason... to bring you a present."

  "A present?"

  "I made a mistake, one that might cost me my life."

  Her words sent a jolt through me, snapping me out of my drowsy state. "Dahlia, what's going on?"

  She exhaled, reaching for a small pouch fastened to her belt, and without a word, she placed it in my hand. "The curtain is off. I've been caught. There's no need for me to pretend anymore."

  I frowned, gripping the pouch tighter. "The Elder knows about my betrayal to the Scarlet Clan," she said. "It won't be long before the entire vampire military force—the same one I led for years—begins to hunt me down. In that bag, you'll find something important. A whistle—that will control the ghouls. It's the only way to keep them inside the sewers and control their behavior."

  I hesitated before pulling open the leather pouch. Inside, nestled in the dark folds of the fabric, was a small skull-shaped whistle. It felt oddly heavy in my palm, despite its size.

  "There are only three of these," Dahlia said. "One is in the hands of the Elder. The second is stored inside the vault at the Vernara Building. And the last one... I just gave it to you."

  "You don't have to run; I will fight with you."

  Dahlia let out a bittersweet chuckle.

  "And take on the entire vampire military?" She shook her head. "That would be a waste, and you know it. You're the only one who can stop this war now. With me out of the picture, all the focus will be on you."

  She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "I've been watching from the shadows, listening. Rumors travel fast, like smoke to fire. Every werewolf will soon come looking for you. And let me tell you something... There are more werewolves hiding in the northern forest than there are vampires inside the Vernara Building."

  A heavy silence followed.

  This war was no longer just brewing.

  It was here.

  I moved quickly, reaching out and gently cupping her cold chin in my hand. My fingers brushed against her skin, and an unnatural chill spread through me the moment I touched her. I tilted her face up slightly, forcing her to meet my gaze.

  Her eyes, once filled with fiery defiance, now held something else entirely—regret. It was a sight I wasn't used to seeing in her.

  "I want to help you. It pains me to know that you'll have to spend the rest of your life running."

  "That won't be necessary. Not if you win the War of the Clans. We've just entered the month of October. You have until the 30th at midnight to keep yourself composed—to make no mistakes. If you slip, the Elder will look for an excuse to throw you in jail. One wrong move and she'll make sure you're out of the equation before the war even starts. That's why you must remain in her good graces until the war unfolds."

  "I want Chief Harrow to answer for Harold's death. I will not rest until Harold gets the justice he deserves."

  "Then do it through the clan rules," she said. "Take the evidence to the Vernara Building and request an audience with the Elder. Present your proof. Force Chief Harrow to answer for his crime in front of the clans. It's the only way to remain within the rules. If you go on a killing spree, it will only make things worse. You'll be branded a criminal, and that's exactly what the elder wants. Not to mention... history will repeat itself."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your father raided the Scarlet Enclave with an army of werewolves—he let his vengeance lead him into war. And look how that ended. Are you planning to make the same mistake? And let's not forget, if you decide to take the law into your own hands, the war will come to an end quickly—but not in your favor."

  She paused, gently grabbing my hand. "Elenore will win. If you and Chief Harrow are both thrown behind bars, Elenore will become the new ruler. And I promise you, once she's in control, she will order the annihilation of every werewolf in this town. That same fate will befall you as well. You cannot give her that chance, no matter how much you want revenge."

  "You don't have to worry about me," I said, though the truth behind my words was far from certain.

  "Tobias, this is serious!" she snapped, bolting upright in my bed. "I was set up when I got caught. I infiltrated the Vernara database room and uncovered something far worse than I imagined."

  I narrowed my eyes. "What did you find?"

  "Elenore's plan isn't just about taking control of Adams, she wants the human world too. Once she's declared ruler, she'll command the warlocks to expand the veil beyond Adams—stretching it over the human world. And when that happens... she'll unleash the ghoul army, setting them loose on a feeding frenzy, slaughtering everything in their path."

  She stood up from bed, walking towards the open balcony doors. "That's when I felt it—the cold press of a blade against my throat. I had been careless, lost in despair as I read Elenore's plan. Zardas, my second-in-command, had been watching me the whole time, monitoring my every move as I scrolled through the confidential files. The moment he alerted the enforcers, I was trapped, forced to remain seated until they arrived. Then, without warning, Mathis—one of my allies—struck, impaling Zardas before he could react. The distraction gave me just enough time to escape. But it won't be long before the special forces track me down."

  "You're welcome to stay here with me. No one would dare enter this house without my permission."

  "You're risking everything for a dead woman," she said. "It's noble, respectable... but also foolish. Sooner or later, my time will come—to look directly at the sun and finally get the rest I deserve." She glanced over her shoulder, a faint, wistful smile on her lips. "I hope that whistle proves useful. The ghouls can be unpredictable at night, so be careful. And... don't forget me, alright?"

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Never," I said.

  A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the dim light before she turned away. Then, with a half-smile, Dahlia hurled herself into the darkness.

  I held the whistle tightly in my hand, its cool surface pressing into my palm as a deep sense of despair settled over me. I had toyed with the idea in my mind of reaching out to the elder, begging for Dahlia's life, but even that desperate thought carried too much risk. Dahlia herself had warned me—such a plea would only expose the truth and create more problems than it would solve.

  A faint creak echoed through the old wooden floorboards, a quiet but unmistakable sign that someone stood outside my door. Before they could knock, I pulled it open, revealing Gerald waiting in the dimly lit hallway.

  "Young master, are we ready to leave?" he asked.

  "Give me a few minutes. I'll meet you downstairs."

  "As you wish, my lord," Gerald said with a slight nod before turning away.

  I slipped the whistle into the pocket of the dragon-skin belt Vantos had gifted me. Dahlia's revelation still rattled me to the core. The image of an army of vampire ghouls tearing through the human world sent a wave of unease through me—despite the fact that I could barely recall anyone from that world. Only two names stood clear in my mind: my mother, Helena, and Harold.

  Outside the estate, I was met with a sight I never thought I'd see—a gathering of werewolves, waiting for my arrival. They stood ready, determined to face their former alpha.

  As I stepped forward, they parted, each one kneeling as I passed. Derrick approached, his gaze sweeping over the swelling crowd of werewolves, their numbers growing beyond what we could easily count.

  "There's no time to screen them all, young master," he said. "How do you want us to handle this influx?"

  I reached deep within, calling upon the beast inside me, demanding its strength. The response was immediate—fire coursed through my veins, my blood boiling as my muscles stretched and hardened. My hair grew past my shoulders, and the markings of the Demon Wolf surfaced across my skin, glowing faintly beneath the moon's dim light.

  "Does anyone here understand what awaits us in Dylan's territory?" I said, looking at the crowd. "If you are afraid or unwilling to take part in this raid, you may leave now. I will not judge your decision... so long as you do not judge mine."

  As my final words faded into the night, I scanned the crowd, expecting at least one wavering soul. But no one stood. Not a single werewolf broke formation. They remained kneeling, waiting for my signal.

  "We enter the forest as a pack, and we leave as one. I don't need heroes—I need loyal soldiers who can follow orders without question. When we step into that forest, we go to face Dylan. But hear me now—if he chooses battle, I alone will fight him. That is my command. If anyone disagrees with my decision, stand now. Speak your mind while you still have the chance."

  Alphonse rose to his feet, his gaze steady as he looked directly at me.

  "My lord, we have all gathered here to witness the fall of a leader who has tormented us for far too long. If it is your wish that we do not interfere, then we will honor that. But you must understand—Dylan won't fight fair. If he resorts to his usual deceit, we will not stand idle. We will engage."

  "Thank you, Alphonse. But I don't believe that will be necessary."

  Gerald approached, standing at my side. "Young master, we have a problem," he said. "The old wagon isn't fit for transport. We'll have to carry the bodies into the forest ourselves."

  I exhaled sharply, then turned to the gathered pack. "Gerald, Antolio, Derrick, and I will each take one of the corpses. We need one more volunteer to carry the last."

  Without hesitation, Alphonse stepped forward. "I will help."

  I nodded in approval. "We leave immediately. The five of us will go first—everyone else follows."

  As we sprinted through the forest, the sight behind me was almost unreal. A sea of werewolves followed in unison, their numbers stretching farther than I could have ever imagined. Shadows danced wildly between the trees, swallowed by the relentless movement of the pack. It was as if the forest itself had come alive, shifting and breathing with the silent, unstoppable force of our kind. They weaved through the underbrush and leaped over fallen logs with unnatural speed, a living tide of fur and muscle sweeping through the darkness.

  Derrick came to an abrupt halt near the entrance of a cave, noticing the grotesque scene before us. The ground was littered with rotting carcasses, their decay filling the air with an overwhelming stench that clung to our senses. We laid the corpses down at the cave's threshold, knowing full well that Dylan, as a werewolf, should have already sensed our presence.

  "This is Dylan's lair, young master," Alphonse said, pointing toward the yawning darkness. "Something isn't right. No guards at the entrance—it's not like him."

  Then, a voice erupted from within the cave, deep and guttural, laced with fury.

  "Leave!" the voice thundered, followed by a bone-chilling growl. "If you take another step, I will rip you apart—tear you to pieces until there's nothing left of you or your pathetic little friends!"

  A hush fell over the gathered werewolves as they instinctively tightened their formation, surrounding the entrance in silent anticipation. "I believe these men were part of your pack. Unfortunately for them... they didn't survive."

  A man staggered out of the cave, keeping a careful distance between us. He clutched a half-empty bottle of liquor, taking slow gulps as if savoring the burn.

  "Ah, yes," he drawled, glancing at the bodies laid before him. "They were part of my gang. I sent them to kill that new Luna wolf at the Reinhart estate," He sighed. "I should've known they weren't as capable as I thought." He scoffed and spat at the corpses; his expression twisted in disdain. "Useless. You just can't find good help these days, you know?"

  Then, as his gaze finally settled on me, something shifted. His drunken confidence faltered. His eyes widened in disbelief.

  "Wait a damn second..." He squinted, studying my face. "You're that little punk. The one stealing all the attention."

  He took another swig from his bottle, letting the liquor slosh carelessly over his lips. Then, his gaze slid over to Alphonse, as a cruel smile crept across his face.

  "And just so you know, Alphonse," he said, his voice laced with malice, "you needed my permission to join another pack. That little act of insubordination? Yeah... for that, I'm going to kill you."

  Dylan hurled the bottle to the ground with violent force, the glass shattering into a hundred jagged shards. His muscles tensed, his body trembling as he prepared for the shift.

  A low growl rumbled from his throat as his transformation began, bones cracking and reshaping, his form expanding into something far more monstrous.

  "Young master?" Derrick asked, assuming a defensive stance. I look around us, every werewolf watched in silence as Dylan's form began to change.

  I remained still, watching as Dylan transformed. "Everything is under control, Derrick."

  The change was completed in mere moments—Dylan now stood before us in his true form, a massive black wolf with burning eyes. Without hesitation, he lunged, his powerful form barreling toward me with lethal intent.

  I didn't flinch. Instead, I channeled every ounce of my strength into summoning the power of the Demon Wolf, igniting my blood as the force surged through me. The instant Dylan's attack closed in, I struck—my hand shooting forward, fingers tightening around his throat.

  With a single, crushing motion, I slammed him into the ground, trembling beneath the impact. His attack ended as quickly as it had begun, his massive frame pinned beneath my grip.

  "Enough," I said. "There's no need to throw your life away, Dylan."

  As I lifted my hand from his battered body, Dylan's form shifted, bones snapping and contorting until he was once again a man. He lay on the ground, breathing heavily, but the fire in his eyes remained unextinguished.

  "Killing is what I live for," he said, his voice hoarse but defiant. "You could never understand a man like me. You've never endured the rejection, the punishment of being a werewolf in this forsaken town. Then you come waltzing in, flashing your pretty hair and those cursed red eyes, acting like you've got something to prove."

  He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "And now, look at you. My men—my pack—stand behind you, ready to abandon me without a second thought."

  His gaze flickered past me, immediately filling his face with sadness. "Including my very own Luna wolf... Andrea."

  Slowly, I turned, following his stare—only to see Andrea stepping forward from the ranks. She held her head high, her expression unreadable as she approached.

  "I arrived at a bad time, didn't I?" she said, her voice laced with disdain as she looked down at Dylan. "You can drop the act. None of us feel pity for you. Your reign is over. Take the mercy being offered to you and leave."

  Dylan's face twisted, shifting from feigned sorrow to something far more sinister. A slow, malevolent grin spread across his lips.

  "Leave... you say?" His tone dripped with mockery. Then, he let out a low, cruel laugh. "You really think I care about a few worthless wolves turning their backs on me?"

  His laughter grew louder. "Let's just say I've found a new way to survive—one that doesn't require your pathetic loyalty."

  Then, a sickening, rancid scent drifted through the clearing—the unmistakable stench of a hunter hybrid. The moment it hit my nose; a sharp whistle sliced through the night air.

  Suddenly, an arrow struck Andrea’s shoulder, burying deep into her flesh. She let out a sharp cry, the force of the impact sending her staggering backward. Her body convulsed as the silver-tipped projectile did its work, but something about these arrows was different. I watched as she clutched her arm, her face contorted in agony.

  "My arm! I—" She gasped, eyes wide with panic. "I can’t move it!"

  Dylan’s laughter erupted from the darkness, wild and unhinged.

  "Surprise!" he howled, his grin stretching into something monstrous as Andrea crumpled to her knees, her breath ragged from the toxin spreading through her veins.

  His gaze flicked to me, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Did you really think I’d be dumb enough to sit and wait for your arrival? I knew these pathetic wolves were looking for a way out of my reign. That’s where you and I differ, puppy."

  His voice dropped, laced with cold arrogance. "I have the guts to eliminate the weak links in my pack, no matter the consequences."

  Then, chaos erupted.

  A volley of silver arrows rained down upon us, striking werewolves left and right. Agonized cries resonated around us, many fell where they stood, while others scrambled for cover. The once-united pack fractured in an instant, some fleeing into the trees, others writhing on the ground as the silver burned into their flesh.

  Through the chaos, a shadowed figure emerged, stepping forward. It knelt beside Dylan, helping him to his feet. The moment its scent reached me, my stomach twisted. It was familiar—unmistakable. And it only made this situation even more dangerous.

  Dylan dusted himself off, his smirk stretching wider as he watched the chaos around us, reveling in it.

  "Isn't this a sight?" he smiled, the tone of his voice laced with mockery. With a lazy gesture, he motioned toward the scattering werewolves, watching them vanish into the trees like frightened prey.

  "Look at them—running like scared rabbits. And they dare call themselves werewolves? Pathetic. Do you honestly believe these cowards are worth leading?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "The very sight of them makes me laugh."

  Then, his gaze snapped back to me, as he laughed, pointing at the injured werewolves scattered around the ground.

  "Tell me, do you still think they deserve your protection?"

  "Alphonse! Take Andrea back to the estate—do whatever it takes to help her. Gerald, Antolio—get the rest of the pack out of their range. The farther, the better. Derrick and I will handle things here."

  Alphonse hesitated momentarily before nodding, quickly lifting Andrea into his arms. Gerald and Antolio began ushering the remaining werewolves away from the battlefield.

  Dylan let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Oh? You're sending them away? Not letting them watch? What kind of leader does that?"

  A surge of anger erupted inside me, igniting the power that had been lying dormant beneath my skin. My body reacted instantly—muscles expanding, raw energy surging through my veins. The marks of the Demon Wolf flared to life, glowing with a fierce intensity as I lunged at Dylan, knowing there was only one path forward.

  I had to end this.

  But just as I closed in, something caught my eye—a flash of metal, sharp and deadly.

  The glint of a blade, slicing through the air, aimed straight for me.

  With a sudden move, I twisted, narrowly dodging the strike. The wind from the sword's arc brushed against my face—too close, forcing me to retreat. My eyes snapped at the attacker, and as the shadows parted, I finally recognized the mysterious figure.

  Rotten. Foul. Utica.

  My fists clenched, my nails digging into my palms as a low growl rumbled in my chest. "I knew it was you. That stench gave you away." My voice was edged with fury, my eyes narrowed as I took in her presence. "Is this how low you've fallen... Utica?"

  She stepped forward, letting the moonlight expose her fully. Her once-beautiful form was now twisted, her skin hardened like pale, cracked stone—a grotesque imitation of vampiric immortality. Her features, hollow and gaunt, gave her the sickly appearance of a woman barely clinging to existence.

  "Hello, puppy," she said, staring at me intensively. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you kill him."

  Without hesitation, she lifted her hand.

  At her silent command, shadows stirred above us. The figures of hidden hunters shifted into view, stationed along the edges of the cave, their bows drawn—arrows glinting in the moonlight, all aimed directly at me.

  It was obvious. This was a well-laid trap. And I had walked straight into it.