The sun rose golden over the rolling hills of Silverfen Valley, painting the dew-wet grass in molten light. In the heart of this lush landscape lay the village of Moonbridge, a place of stone lanes, wooden cottages, and the comforting scent of pine smoke on the morning breeze. But Moonbridge was no ordinary village. It sat on the border between human lands and the ancient forests where the werewolf clans roamed—noble beasts bound by oaths older than memory.