The cave was... energetic.
And by energetic, we mean someone-had-fed-an-anger-issue-zoo-a-case-of-Red Bull energetic. Thirty minutes until the full moon, and the vibe in Fenrir Greyback's pack was somewhere between frat party and horror movie prologue.
Skarn was chewing on what might've been a femur—though nobody dared ask if it came from a skeleton or last Tuesday's failed mission. Wren, in a display of peak emotional stability, was gnawing his own wrist like it had betrayed him. Someone—possibly Greg, possibly the ghost of bad decisions—was humming the Jaws theme in the background. Off-key. With growls.
At the center of this pre-moon madness crouched Fenrir Greyback, Alpha, apex predator, and part-time nightmare fuel. He was built like a Viking biker god and gave off the sort of calm that made you nervous. You know, like the moment before a thunderstorm—or a bear hug from a bear who also wants to eat you.
Greyback's fingers curled around a twitchy-looking portkey. It resembled a doorknob stolen from a haunted funhouse, pulsing faintly like it had a heartbeat and really, really wanted to be anywhere else.
"This one's twitchy," he rumbled, voice rough like gravel wrapped in thunder and dipped in sarcasm. "Probably cursed."
Wren, whose brain had clearly filed for early retirement, leaned over and licked his own portkey—some sort of warped goblet lid that looked like it had been through a blender.
"They're all probably cursed," he said dreamily. "That's what makes 'em fun."
"Don't lick the portkey," Skarn muttered from the corner, still gnawing bone. His voice was about as expressive as a landslide. "You'll turn into a chicken. Or a fire. Or a flaming chicken."
Wren raised a brow. "Honestly? Flaming chicken sounds like an upgrade."
Greyback didn't laugh. Fenrir Greyback didn't do laughter unless it involved someone else screaming. Instead, he grunted, which in Greyback-ese translated to Wren, if you die, I'm using your skull as a goblet and telling people it's poetic justice.
"Yaxley wouldn't dare screw with us," Greyback said, voice dropping an octave just to remind the cave who was boss. "He knows what happens if I'm released early."
"Sure," Wren said, casually spinning his portkey like a rogue coin. "He sends a lovely fruit basket. 'Sorry for the betrayal, here's a melon.'"
Greyback turned slowly—very slowly. The kind of slow that made small mammals run, birds flee, and Wren immediately regret his entire existence.
Greyback's smile was toothy and not at all friendly. "Keep talking, Wren. Maybe I'll forget I said you could come back."
Wren winced. "Oof. Noted. Dialing down the sarcasm to 'survivable.'"
The portkeys began pulsing in eerie unison, like they were syncing up to a playlist titled Midnight Mayhem: Volume One.
Greyback rose to full height, stretching his shoulders with the grace of a predator and the sound of a collapsing tree. His muscles shifted like tectonic plates made of rage. The man did not move so much as loom.
He pointed to each werewolf in turn. "Listen up. We go in, we wait. No biting, no howling, no getting clever with centaurs."
"What if they start it?" Wren asked, raising a finger like he was about to challenge a rule in a Quidditch match.
Greyback's eyes narrowed into slits of golden fury. "You so much as nibble a third-year, Yaxley will come down on me. And if he comes for me, I will gift-wrap you and hand-deliver your body to him. Possibly flaming. Definitely screaming."
"Copy that," Wren said. "No pre-snacking. No unsolicited nibbling. Got it."
Skarn held up his portkey—a bent metal disk that looked like a Quaffle had lost a bar fight. "If this takes me to another swamp, I'm flipping it."
"You flip a portkey," Greyback said, cracking his knuckles with a noise that could've come from a tree exploding, "you better hope it lands on your head."
He paused, eyes gleaming like moonlight on a blade.
"We hit the forest. We keep to the trees. We don't move until the signal."
"And what, exactly, is the signal again?" Wren asked. He was now holding his portkey like it might whisper the answer if he stroked it enough times.
Greyback grinned.
"Screaming."
There was a moment of silence.
"Oh," Wren said. "That kind of party."
The portkeys flared all at once—not with a majestic whoosh, but more of a magical yoink! followed by a collective "welp!"
Greyback vanished first in a flash of predatory magic, pulled into the unknown like a thundercloud teleporting to a better fight. Wren followed, mid-eye roll and probably mid-regret. Skarn's portkey spun him upside down and launched him like a very angry pizza into the void.
The cave, once loud and chaotic, fell quiet.
Well—quiet except for the Jaws theme echoing faintly from a far-off echo.
—
With a noise like a hiccup from a volcano and a puff of magic that smelled suspiciously like burnt toast and sarcasm, Fenrir Greyback landed in a crouch, smack in the middle of a mossy clearing bathed in moonlight.
He didn't just crouch. He posed. Like a rockstar about to drop an album titled Howl If You Love Mayhem. Muscles flexed. Hair blew dramatically in a wind that absolutely did not exist a second ago. He sniffed the air with a hunter's focus.
"Grass. Pine. Damp unicorn. Teenage angst," he muttered, grin spreading like wildfire. "Oh yeah. Daddy's home."
A wet splorch heralded Wren's arrival as he fell out of thin air like he'd been hurled by a grumpy poltergeist. He hit the ground, rolled once, then lay there groaning like a man who'd just French-kissed a lawnmower.
"I tasted that portkey," he choked, spitting into the dirt. "It tasted like someone tried to bottle disappointment. And also feet."
Greyback didn't look at him. He was busy scanning the trees like he was already counting hiding spots for corpses—or snacks.
Another thud. Enter: Skarn. He dropped from the sky like a wardrobe full of bricks and poor life choices, landing upside down in a web of tree roots. One leg twitched. A squirrel launched itself into orbit.
"I'm okay," Skarn announced to the moss. "This is fine. I meant to land like a horror movie sound effect."
"You land like a meatball, Skarn," Wren said, brushing moss off his shoulder. "A very loud, very uncoordinated meatball."
"Still better than your face," Skarn muttered, not bothering to get up.
Greyback finally turned to them, one eyebrow raised like a judgmental mountain. He looked like the kind of guy who'd wrestle a bear for breakfast, then ask for dessert.
"Focus up," he growled. His voice was a mix of gravel, thunder, and the kind of thing that made small woodland creatures write wills. "We've got thirty minutes 'til showtime."
He looked up at the sky. The moon was rising—big, silver, and smug about it.
"That's thirty minutes before I stop playing nice and start chewing through things that scream."
Wren cleared his throat. "So… hypothetically… what's our actual plan? You know. Besides 'appear menacing and smell like wet dog.'"
Greyback strode past him like a thundercloud with abs.
"The plan is: we get into position. We wait. We don't growl, we don't howl, and we definitely don't lick anything until I say go."
Skarn, now upright and chewing on a stick for reasons no one wanted to ask about, looked puzzled. "Even if it looks delicious?"
"Yes," Greyback said flatly. "Especially then. That's how you get cursed. Or end up with antlers in places antlers do not belong."
Wren raised a cautious hand like a student in the world's worst classroom. "Define 'wait.' Because I have ADHD and also very sharp teeth. Just saying."
Greyback turned to him, slowly. The kind of slow that made time itself uncomfortable.
"You start early," he said, voice dropping an octave, "and I swear on the next full moon, I'll wear your spine like a tie."
"Copy that," Wren said quickly. "Stealth mode. No chaos. No murder. Got it. Boring, but got it."
"Good." Greyback cracked his neck—snap snap—like trees snapping in a winter storm. "Because when that first scream hits the air? That's your cue. That's when we go from wolves to nightmares in fur coats."
The portkey shimmer was long gone. The forest was still. Silent. Watching.
Greyback inhaled one last time, letting the scents flood his senses like an old war tune. Magic. Moonlight. Mischief.
The moon climbed higher.
Almost time.
And the wolf inside Greyback—hungry, ancient, always waiting—stretched its claws across his bones.
He smiled, all teeth.
"Gentlemen," he said, "welcome to the hunt."
—
The moon hit its zenith like a giant cosmic spotlight saying, "Hey, let's make some bad decisions." It was big, silver, and shameless, hanging in the sky with the same energy as a kid double-daring someone to eat a live frog.
In the clearing, Fenrir Greyback grinned. A slow, toothy grin that said "time to ruin someone's night."
He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck loud enough to scare small birds out of trees. His eyes gleamed gold—no, predatory gold. The kind of gold that didn't belong in coins or jewelry but in nightmares and warning signs.
"Oh yeah," he muttered, voice low and rough, like it had gravel for breakfast. "Showtime, boys."
"Wait," Wren said, already halfway panicked. "Is it now now? Like, right this second? Because I haven't finished digesting dinner and I don't want to—OH NO, IT'S HAPPENING!"
Wren dropped like a sack of overcaffeinated ferrets and started twitching violently.
Greyback laughed. "Kid screams every time. Gets me right in the heart."
Behind them, Skarn gave a high-pitched giggle that should not have come out of a creature his size. He casually tossed away the stick he'd been gnawing on for the last hour and said, "Let's get monstrous."
The transformations hit them like a bus full of angry chiropractors. Bones snapped. Muscles stretched. Skin did deeply regrettable things. It was gross. It was violent. It was awesome.
Greyback dropped to all fours, laughing through it, like he was enjoying the pain. His spine cracked loud enough to make a tree wince. Hair burst from his skin like an overgrown chia pet, and his grin stretched past human limits. His hands—no, paws—dug into the earth, claws curling like they were eager to be used.
By the time he was done, he wasn't just a werewolf. He was the werewolf.
Massive. Muscled. Moonlit. The kind of creature you'd expect to burst through your front door, eat your fridge, and then make a witty remark before biting your face off.
Wren, on the other hand, looked like a werewolf in beta testing. His ears twitched in different directions. His tail kept wagging like it had its own Wi-Fi signal.
"Why does this always hurt worse than the last time?" Wren moaned, flopping onto his back dramatically. "I swear, one of these nights, my spine's just going to peace out and walk away."
"That'd be a first," Skarn grunted, now fully transformed and even uglier than before—which was saying something. His snout was too wide. His fur looked like it had lost a fight with a lawnmower. Still chewing on something, he added, "Also, I think I'm stuck like this. My toes won't unbend."
Greyback rose to his full, monstrous height, golden eyes gleaming with purpose and mischief.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice now a growl soaked in whiskey and wildness, "welcome to Hogwarts."
He pointed a claw toward the castle, its windows glowing soft and yellow in the distance. The towers looked peaceful. Regal. Untouchable.
"Home to hundreds of fresh, squishy little wizards who've never seen a real monster up close. They think trolls under bridges are scary." He flashed a sharp grin. "Let's change that."
"Wait," Wren said, ears perking up. "Are we, like, eating the kids? Or just giving them a very traumatic group hug?"
Greyback chuckled and clapped a paw on Wren's back hard enough to almost dislocate something.
"No killing," he said. "Well… not too much killing. You break 'em too bad, they can't turn. We're not just here to cause chaos. We're here to build something."
"Like a bloodthirsty family," Skarn added.
"Exactly!" Greyback roared, clearly delighted. "A pack! You don't just bite and bounce—you cultivate. Nurture. Convert. Corrupt."
Wren blinked. "That was weirdly motivational. Like, dark TED Talk energy."
"Thank you," Greyback said, clearly pleased. "I've been workshopping it."
He stepped forward, nose lifted to the breeze. The smell of pine. Damp moss. Distant spells. And underneath it all—
Magic.
Innocent. Raw. Unprotected.
Greyback inhaled like it was his favorite cologne.
"Smell that?" he said. "That's opportunity. That's potential. That's... pre-teen trauma just waiting to bloom."
The castle loomed in the distance, unaware and defenseless. Inside, kids were doing what kids always did: sneaking snacks, flirting badly, ignoring homework, and making horrible decisions about who to ask to the next Hogsmeade trip.
They had no idea what was coming.
"Alright, pups," Greyback said, lowering into a crouch. "Follow my lead. No mercy. No hesitation. And if you see a Prefect—"
"Bite twice?" Skarn offered.
"Correct."
With that, he leapt—one smooth, terrifying blur into the shadows. A missile made of muscle and malice.
Skarn followed, barking happily like the world's most violent retriever.
Wren sighed. "Why do I always get stuck with the psychos?"
He took off after them.
The forest swallowed them up.
They didn't break twigs. They didn't rustle leaves. They moved like smoke and death and bedtime stories gone wrong.
At the edge of the trees, Greyback paused. His eyes locked on the Astronomy Tower.
A student leaned against the windowsill, whispering a wish into the night.
They wouldn't see the monsters coming.
But they'd hear the howls.
Greyback's lips peeled back from his fangs.
"One scream," he whispered, voice as soft as silk and twice as dangerous. "That's all I need."
And above them, the moon—silver, full, and hungry—smiled.
—
Just as Greyback crouched low, ready to spring forward like the world's angriest linebacker, the air around them shifted.
Not just a breeze. Not even a storm.
It was the kind of shift that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up and whisper, "Hey, maybe let's not die tonight?"
Wren froze mid-step, nose twitching. "Anyone else feel that? Because my fur's doing the jazz hands thing."
Skarn growled, half-snarl, half-sneeze. "I thought that was just the meat pie from last night."
Greyback lifted his massive head and sniffed the air. His jaw clenched. Something… wrong.
Deep, ancient, forest-watching-you-back kind of wrong.
And then—
Hiss.
A spark flared near the tree line.
Then another.
Then five more, darting between roots like fireflies with an attitude problem.
"Okay, nope," Wren muttered, inching backward. "I've seen this movie. We're the redshirts."
The sparks caught, one by one, until a ring of flames flared up around the clearing—circling them like an angry donut made of fire.
It crackled, hissed, and pulsed with heat, like it had opinions about werewolves, and none of them were five-star reviews.
Skarn's ears flattened.
"Why is it always circles? Bad things happen in circles. Ritual sacrifices, wedding dances, group therapy…"
Greyback's lip curled. "Shut up. Hold formation."
Which was hilarious, because the very next second, the forest hit pause.
Greyback's body locked mid-growl. His muscles wouldn't twitch. His legs might as well have been made of stone. His face was permanently stuck in an expression that screamed I just smelled something foul and I'm about to punch it.
Wren was frozen mid-scamper, one eye wide, the other somehow wider. Skarn looked like he was mid-sneeze—which made him the least intimidating lawn ornament in magical history.
And then it hit them.
They weren't the hunters anymore.
They were the mice.
"I swear," Greyback thought, growling internally because, well, his jaw didn't work, "If this is one of Dumbledore's practical jokes again, I'm going to eat a centaur."
The fire flared higher. Blue flickers danced along its edges now—cold fire, hungry fire. Fire that meant something.
And then, just as fast as it came…
The paralysis shattered.
Greyback hit the ground hard, claws gouging the dirt. He snarled like a thunderclap. "What was that?!"
Wren staggered to his feet, legs shaking like they were made of leftover spaghetti. "I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was mostly bad decisions and undercooked rodents."
"I think I peed," Skarn said.
"No one cares, Skarn," Greyback snapped. He started pacing, eyes darting between the fire and the trees beyond. "Find an exit. We're not dying in a campfire circle designed by Pinterest witches."
Wren blinked. "What if it's enchanted? You know—magical fire. That'll roast your soul or give you a rash or something."
"Then walk through and find out," Greyback barked.
"Hard pass."
And then…
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It started faint. Like a heartbeat in the dirt.
Then louder. Rhythmic. Like war drums built out of thunder and tree roots.
The wolves went silent.
And then came the voice.
"For the forest!"
A cry split the air, deep and resonant, like it had been echoing through the trees for centuries and just finally got the courage to scream.
Voices joined in, rising like a war hymn from every direction. Voices full of fury, purpose, and zero tolerance for werewolves with bad attitudes.
"Oh, come on," Wren whined. "We're being ambushed by environmentalists?!"
"Shut up and listen," Greyback growled.
Then the most terrifying sound of all.
Fwip.
One bowstring. Then ten. Then fifty.
"Bows," Skarn said, staring into the dark. "They've got bows."
"Big deal," Greyback said. "I've taken arrows before."
Fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip!
The sound grew. A swarm of buzzing death above them.
They all looked up.
Arrows.
A rainstorm of arrowheads, silhouetted against the moon like the sky itself wanted them gone.
Greyback's jaw dropped slightly—not from fear, but from a very specific kind of realization.
"Oh," he muttered.
"Yeah," Wren whispered. "We're gonna die, aren't we?"
Greyback grinned. A grin that said if I'm going down, I'm taking a few of them with me.
"No," he said, baring his teeth. "We're gonna fight. Then maybe die. But it's gonna be fun as hell."
The arrows descended.
—
The first arrow hit Skarn in the shoulder.
He screamed like someone had been stabbed with betrayal, emotional trauma, and also, well, an actual arrow.
"I'VE BEEN MURDERED!" he howled, flopping dramatically to the ground like a dying swan.
"You're fine," Wren snapped, ducking as another volley turned the clearing into a very aggressive acupuncture session. "You're just slightly impaled. Get up, you theatrical meatball!"
Greyback took one to the ribs and grunted. Not because it hurt—though it did, like a bar fight with a cactus—but mostly because it annoyed him. He glanced down at the arrow sticking out of his side like an oversized toothpick in a steak and growled, "Silver?"
Wren—who was busy yanking a particularly rude arrow out of his own flank—sniffed it, then made a face like he'd just licked a centaur's armpit.
"Wood," he said. "Not silver. Probably enchanted. Maybe dipped in sage and bad intentions."
"Then they're not trying to kill us," Greyback muttered, yanking out the arrow and casually tossing it into the fire like he was flicking away an annoying mosquito.
"Yeah," Skarn said, crawling behind a rock and clutching his shoulder like he was auditioning for Werewolf Hamlet. "They're just trying to hurt us. You know. Light torture. Real classy."
"Oh good," Wren said, his voice going shrill as an arrow nicked his ear. "I always dreamed of being ethically maimed in the forest! Adds character."
Another volley rained down.
It was like the sky had decided it had beef with them and chose passive-aggressive archery as its weapon of choice.
Greyback took another arrow to the thigh. He roared. Not in pain. In challenge. The kind of roar that made trees shake and squirrels immediately file for relocation.
"I swear," he growled, muscles flexing as he snapped the shaft in half, "when I find the clown who made these, I'm gonna decorate their intestines like party streamers."
"Can we not talk about party streamers right now?" Wren panted, flopping beside him. "I am two sarcastic quips away from cardiac arrest."
"We should run," Skarn said from behind his rock. "Or burrow. Or dissolve into the earth like dramatic worms."
Greyback glared at him. "Run through what, genius? The fire? The arrows? Or the sea of pure bullcrap we've found ourselves in?"
Skarn blinked. "...Fire. Definitely the fire. It's warm and inviting."
The ring of flames blazed even higher, turning the clearing into a forest-themed apocalypse. Arrows kept coming, relentless, like the world's deadliest confetti cannon.
Then—
It stopped.
Just like that.
No warning. No slow-down. Just... silence.
One last arrow thunked into a tree with the soft, awkward finality of someone sitting on a whoopee cushion in church.
The wolves froze.
Wren raised a paw. "Did they run out of arrows?"
Greyback didn't answer. He was too busy doing that thing he did when he smelled danger. You know—the way a storm dog smells lightning before it hits. His hackles weren't just up—they were attempting modern interpretive dance.
"What is it?" Skarn whispered.
Greyback turned slowly, sniffing the air. His voice dropped to a deep rumble.
"Something's wrong."
"Define wrong," Wren said. "Because I'm getting major 'Haunted Forest with Bonus Regret' vibes."
"No fire smoke," Greyback muttered. "No scent of enemies. No arrows in the air. Just…" He paused. His golden eyes narrowed.
"Just what?" Skarn squeaked.
Greyback looked at the trees, then the shadows beyond them, then the flames that had started to dim—not die, just pull back like they were afraid.
He bared his teeth. "Something worse."
Wren snorted. "Oh great. Worse than being turned into a canine pincushion. That's comforting."
"Something old," Greyback said, voice low. "Something that doesn't hunt like us. It waits. Watches. Smiles when the fire burns."
"Cool, cool, cool," Wren muttered, edging toward the nearest not-on-fire tree. "So we're about to meet a cursed forest god, an undead stag king, or a really angry druid, and you're just standing there like this is Tuesday poker night?"
Greyback cracked his neck.
Then he grinned.
That grin?
It said bring it on, do your worst, and I floss with bigger monsters than you.
"I like Tuesdays," he said.
The fire dimmed more.
Shadows twisted like something was breathing in the dark.
And every feral instinct in Greyback's ancient, war-scarred body screamed the same word.
Run.
But Greyback didn't.
Because Greyback didn't run.
He waited.
And whatever was coming?
He wanted it to know exactly who it was messing with.
—
The silence was the worst part.
Not the fire. Not the arrows. Not even Skarn's theatrical groaning like he was auditioning for Werewolves of the Opera.
Nope.
It was the quiet.
The kind of quiet that made your fur stand on end. The kind of quiet where even the bugs were like, "Nope, we're out."
Fenrir Greyback—currently nine feet of snarling nightmare with glowing amber eyes, a chest like a battering ram, and claws that could carve a roast faster than a Ginsu knife commercial—stood motionless in the middle of the clearing, blood dripping from a few shallow wounds and a deep well of irritation.
His ears twitched.
Something was wrong.
Like, existentially wrong. Like, "the world has a virus and we're all NPCs in a corrupted save file" wrong.
"Okay," Wren muttered, limping over with an arrow sticking out of his thigh, "weird question—are the trees… dancing?"
Fenrir didn't look at him. "They're moving," he said, voice low and gravelly. "But not like trees should."
"Oh good," Skarn called from behind the least effective boulder ever, "maybe they're friendly Ents. Or maybe we're hallucinating. Do wolves get PTSD? I feel like we're checking all the boxes."
And then it happened.
A snap in the underbrush.
A yelp.
The sound of claws scrabbling—then nothing. No scream. No howl. Just silence, like someone had hit the mute button on a life.
Fenrir's lip curled. "Korin," he growled. Or was it Fennel? Ugh, why did they all name themselves like they were characters in a bad indie RPG?
Wren spun, ears perked. "That wasn't—That wasn't normal, right?"
"No," Fenrir said, his voice like steel wrapped in sandpaper. "That was very not normal."
He turned in a slow circle. His claws flexed. His nose twitched.
Nothing.
No scent trail.
No breath. No heartbeat. No anything.
Which was a problem, because Fenrir's nose could usually pick out a rabbit fart at sixty yards.
Snap.
Another yelp.
Another body just… gone.
Like a magic trick performed by a very angry magician.
Skarn whimpered. "That's not cool. This is not cool. You know what this is? This is how horror movies start. First it's the expendable background wolves, then the comic relief—oh gods, that's me."
Fenrir growled. A real, chest-rattling, "someone's-about-to-get-slashed" kind of growl. He sniffed left—pine.
Sniffed right—pine again.
Sniffed behind him—burnt meat. His own.
Okay. That wasn't even logically possible.
Something was messing with him. Not just hiding from his senses—rewriting them.
His nose said, "All clear." His ears said, "Everyone's breathing." His instincts said, "You're already dead, you just haven't noticed yet."
Wren crept closer, eyes wide. "Greyback… can you sense them?"
"No," Fenrir said, and that one word held more violence than a bar fight in a silver mine. "And that's what's wrong."
Snap.
Another wolf gone.
This one tried to scream—but the sound cut off halfway through, like someone had hit pause mid-trauma.
"We're being hunted," Fenrir said. "Stalked. Picked off."
Skarn shook so hard he nearly vibrated out of his fur. "But why can't we smell them? Or see them? Or… anything them?"
"Because whatever it is," Wren muttered, "it's cheating. Stealth spells. Glamour. Illusions. Magic with a capital Screw You."
Fenrir wasn't listening. His eyes were locked on the forest. His hackles were up. His inner predator—who usually lived on a diet of raw meat, testosterone, and bad decisions—was losing its mind.
It wasn't just fear.
It was dread. Ancient, primal, cold-sweat dread.
And Fenrir Greyback did not do dread.
He stepped forward, eyes scanning the darkness between the trees. "It's not hunting for food," he muttered. "It's playing."
"Oh yay," Skarn said weakly. "We're the chew toys."
"Then let's give it what it wants," Fenrir said, baring his teeth. "Fear."
"Mission accomplished," Wren said, waving a trembling paw. "I'm afraid. You afraid, Skarn?"
"Terrified," Skarn whispered. "Like, existentially."
A gust of wind blew through the clearing.
No, not wind. Whispers. Not in any language known to man or wolf. Just the sound of wrongness, brushing against Fenrir's brain like a cold finger across a tombstone.
He turned to the darkest part of the forest.
And then, just for a heartbeat, he saw it.
A shape.
Tall.
Still.
Not supposed to be here.
And then it was gone.
Fenrir's fur stood on end. His claws dug into the dirt. His heart thudded like a war drum in a thunderstorm.
And for the first time in a very long time…
Fenrir Greyback realized he was feeling something he didn't even have a word for.
Not rage.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
Darker.
Like his instincts were whispering, "Run. Run now."
But Fenrir Greyback didn't run.
He grinned.
—
The shape moved.
Not fast. Not loud. Just—forward. Like it didn't care that it was stepping into a clearing full of twitchy werewolves who were one bad joke away from going full Michael Bay.
Fenrir's growl caught in his throat.
It wasn't a monster.
It wasn't an elf.
It wasn't some eldritch creature from the back of the Forbidden Forest's worst fanfiction.
It was a boy.
Well, technically a boy.
Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Tall. Lean. Built like one of those statues from Ancient Greece that made you question your gym membership. His bodysuit armor was red and gold, sleek and seamless like it had been poured on. A crimson hood draped over his head, hiding everything but a sharp jawline and two glowing golden eyes that practically hummed with power.
Wren blinked. "Is that… is that kid glowing? Why is he glowing? Why do the glowing ones always have perfect posture?"
"Maybe he's one of those demigods," Skarn muttered.
"I'm right here, you know," the boy said, voice calm. Not cocky. Not loud. Just there. Smooth as silk. Warm as firelight. The kind of voice that should not belong to someone that young. "But please, don't let that stop you."
Skarn, bless his tiny, reckless brain, decided that was the perfect moment to go full murder-chihuahua.
With a snarl, he lunged.
Fangs out. Claws swinging. The whole primal predator package.
And for half a glorious second, it looked like he might actually take the kid down.
Then the fire happened.
A spear—no, a blade—of pure fire, brighter than Fenrir's temper and hotter than Wren's last attempt at cooking, shot out from under the boy's cloak.
Straight up Skarn's mouth.
And out the back of his skull.
The sound was horrible.
The smell was worse.
Skarn twitched once, twice—then crumpled like bad origami.
The boy didn't move.
Didn't gloat.
Didn't even breathe hard.
He just let Skarn slide off the blade, then let the fire vanish in a soft whoosh, like it had been nothing more than a campfire spark.
For one very awkward second, no one spoke.
Then Wren broke the silence with: "Soooo… I'm gonna put Skarn down for 'dead.' Anyone else?"
A sudden metallic WHIRR cut through the air like a buzzsaw made of patriotism.
Something gleamed from the shadows.
A red, white, and blue disc—no, a shield—spun out of the darkness. Circular. Fast. Edged with something that looked an awful lot like silver. Maybe even…
"Is that vibranium?" Wren asked.
"Shut up," Fenrir growled.
The shield ricocheted off the side of a tree, smashed into the skull of one wolf—snap!—bounced to another—crunch!—and then zipped back into the shadows like it had a GPS and no time for nonsense.
Two wolves down.
Just like that.
No sound. No warning. No scent.
Only pain.
Fenrir's instincts screamed trap.
And this time, they weren't lying.
From every angle of the forest, shapes stepped out.
Some tall. Some short. All cloaked in shadow.
Not monsters.
Not beasts.
People.
Powerful people.
Armed.
Armored.
Ready.
Wren whimpered. "You're seeing this, right? Like, this isn't just another magical gaslight moment?"
Fenrir didn't answer.
He was too busy scanning the tree line, heart pounding like a war drum, as he slowly realized the truth:
They weren't being hunted anymore.
They were surrounded.
And whatever had just stepped into their world…
Wasn't playing fair.
Wasn't playing nice.
Wasn't playing at all.
---
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