The rain fell relentlessly, a gray curtain that transformed the forest into a labyrinth of shadows and mud. Every drop seemed to carry the weight of the sky, striking the broad leaves with a constant drumming that muffled any sound other than the storm itself or John's controlled breathing. The smell was thick, an acrid mixture of wet earth, crushed pine, and something more primitive, metallic, that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end beneath the collar of his soaked cloak: fresh blood.
He moved with the economy of motion of someone who knew the dance of the hunt all too intimately. His feet, shod in weathered leather boots that had tread countless miles of forgotten trails, sank slightly into the thick mud but made no more noise than a rotting branch falling. His eyes, gray like the stormy sky, scanned the gloom, catching details that an ordinary man would never notice: a branch broken unnaturally, the fleeting glint of something wet on a dark leaf, and the footprints.
Ah, the footprints. They were unmistakable. Too large for a common wolf, too deep in the soft earth, bearing the undeniable mark of claws that belonged only to those who walked between two worlds. Werewolves. Newly transformed, judging by the crude trail and lack of subtlety. Careless. Or perhaps desperate. Local farmers had muttered about sheep found torn apart, about enormous shapes seen in the light of the waning moon. To John, they were just more names on an endless list, another infestation to be purged.
He followed the tracks for hours, the rain washing his scarred face, seeping through the seams of his clothes, but he barely noticed the discomfort. A cold fire burned within him, a mixture of grim duty and ancient hatred, honed by loss and repetition until it became the very essence of his existence. Killing monsters. It was what he did. It was all that remained.
A thunderclap exploded overhead, so near it made the ground tremble. The momentary flash tore through the forest's veil, revealing for an instant the entrance to a clearing up ahead, shrouded in a lower, denser mist that seemed to rise from the soaked ground itself. And there, in the diffuse center of that white shroud, he saw it.
The beast was colossal, a mountain of taut muscles and coal-black fur, bristling with fury and storm. It stood on all fours, its muzzle raised, sniffing the air, and its eyes… eyes the color of liquid amber, shining with a primal intelligence and a hunger that transcended mere physical need. The alpha of the pack. John felt recognition freeze his bones, a familiar sensation that preceded carnage.
He did not hesitate. He drew the ash stake from his thigh—a dark, smooth wood anointed with oils and symbols that were poison to profane flesh. Silver was effective, yes, but consecrated wood, driven into the heart, was definitive. He advanced, not running but gliding through the shadows at the clearing's edge, using the storm's cacophony to mask his approach.
The werewolf turned its massive head toward him a second too late. The roar that erupted from its throat was a guttural sound, ripped from the depths of a nightmare, but John was already upon it. The clash was brutal, a chaotic dance of claws, teeth, and tempered steel. The monster struck with the force of a bear, its claws raking the air where John had stood mere moments before. John dodged, spun—his movements fluid despite the treacherous terrain—as his short sword sang against resistance, carving grooves in thick hide, releasing more of that iron tang into the air.
The moon, for a brief moment, found a gap in the heavy clouds, bathing the scene in pale, ghostly light. It was in that instant that John saw his opening. As the beast reared on its hind legs for a devastating attack, he dove beneath the blow, feeling the rush of displaced air in his hair, and drove the stake with all his body's strength into the monster's exposed chest. A sharp howl rose up, mingling with the next thunderclap, and the massive body convulsed, claws closing on empty air. The amber eyes locked onto John's, surprise and hatred blending with agony, before the wild light extinguished, leaving only the void of death. The giant collapsed with a muffled thud into the mud, the rain beginning to wash the dark blood from its fur.
But there was no time for reflection. From the edges of the clearing, other howls answered, and smaller, equally ferocious shapes emerged from the mist. The pack's warriors. John spun around, the short sword in one hand, a silver dagger in the other. The fight resumed—faster, more desperate. He became a whirlwind of calculated death, each strike precise, each parry deflecting a lethal blow by inches. One fell with its throat cut by silver; another had its skull crushed by John's boot against an exposed root. The last, younger, hesitated for one fatal moment, and John's sword silenced his howl forever.
The silence that followed was almost as oppressive as the battle's noise. Only the sound of rain and the slow drip of blood from bodies strewn across the clearing. John stood motionless for a moment, breathing heavily, his exhalations forming vapor clouds in the cold air, blood—both theirs and some of his from superficial scratches—coursing down his arms. The cold fire within him burned, sated, but beneath the satisfaction lay the familiar ash of exhaustion, of endless repetition.
It was then that he saw her. Fallen near the alpha's body, partially hidden by a crushed bush. A smaller form, feminine. She lay unconscious, her pale face turned toward the rainy sky, long black hair splayed like dark silk in the mud. She bore claw marks on her shoulders and neck—not his doing, but perhaps from the struggle or an interrupted transformation. Shreds of flesh hung loose, as though the change had been painful, violent.
He approached cautiously, sword still at the ready. Another of them? A female? They were rarer but equally dangerous. He knelt beside her, observing. She was young, perhaps twenty years old. Fine features beneath the grime and blood, a wild beauty that even unconsciousness could not entirely erase. A part of him—the hunter part—saw her as a threat. Another part, one he seldom let surface, noticed the vulnerability, the youth lost in this horror.
Before he could decide what to do—a swift strike would be the most logical, the safest—she murmured something. Weak words, nearly inaudible under the rain, in a guttural, ancient tongue he recognized from the forbidden tomes he had studied. He did not understand the exact meaning, but the tone, the cadence… spoke of places, names, secrets. Information. She knew something. She knew where to find others like her.
Cold calculation overrode any other consideration. Alive, she was worth more than dead. She could be the key to dismantling other dens, other nests of corruption. With a sigh that was almost a growl, he sheathed his sword and, careful not to touch the clawed wounds—one never knew what poison or curse they might carry—lifted her into his arms. She was lighter than he expected, but there was a density in her muscles, a contained strength even in unconsciousness. Her scent, beneath the blood and rain, was of damp earth, of deep forest, and something else… something indefinable, almost floral, disturbingly human.
He arranged her in his arms, her body yielding to his chest. For a moment, he felt the faint brush of her hair against his jaw, her weak breath against his neck. A strange, unwelcome sensation coursed through him. He repressed it with his usual brutality. She was cargo. She was information. Nothing more.
He turned, leaving behind the blood-soaked clearing bathed in pale moonlight, and began the long trek back, plunging once more into the dark, rainy forest, carrying his unexpected prize.
Seraphina woke with a throbbing pain in her head and the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. The first conscious sensation was cold—a damp chill that pierced her bones. She blinked, trying to focus. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was chaos, screams, the overwhelming smell of death and… her father's face, amber eyes wide before… No. The memory was a knife twisting in the wound.
She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, unfamiliar. She looked down, and horror struck her like a surge of ice. She lay upon something rough—straw? And her wrists… they were bound. Chains. Thick, cold, etched with symbols that burned lightly against her skin. Anti-supernatural chains. She was trapped. Captured.
Panic threatened to suffocate her, but the pride and fury inherited from her lineage fought it back. She raised her head, green eyes sweeping the unfamiliar surroundings. A rustic cabin, walls of dark wood, the smell of old smoke and dried herbs. A single barred window showed only the darkness outside, punctuated by the ceaseless sound of rain. She was alone, but the hunter's presence hung in the air like a miasma.
The hunter. The one who had brought death to her door, who had torn away her father, her pack, her world. The one who had brought her here. Prisoner. A low growl vibrated in her chest, a sound half-human, half-beast. Her eyes flashed in the gloom. She might be chained, but she was not broken. The beast within her awakened, hungry for vengeance.