The village of Glenhollow had always lived with one eye toward the forest. Dense and ancient, the wood loomed like a slumbering beast around the village's edges, its trees gnarled and twisted as though shaped by dark hands. Villagers spoke of spirits and old gods with the kind of reverence that came not from faith, but fear. No one entered the forest after sundown, and certainly not during a full moon.
On such a night—when the moon was round and luminous, casting silver light across rooftops and cobblestone lanes—young Aiden Thorne stood at the forge beside his master, old Garrick Ironhand. The clang of hammer on steel rang through the air like a bell tolling for the dead.
"Keep the rhythm," Garrick grunted, sweat beading on his bald head. "Iron sings if you let it. Lose the beat and it sings no more—just screams."
Aiden nodded, mimicking the master's movements. At eighteen, he had grown tall and lean, strong from labor but still awkward in his movements, like a colt learning to run. His hair, coal-black and curling at the edges, was soaked with sweat.
He worked the bellows, feeling the fire's heat lash his face. Beyond the open forge doors, darkness thickened. Mist crept low across the ground. The village's dogs began to bark—first one, then another, until the chorus echoed from every lane.
Garrick paused, lips tightening. "Call it here, boy. That's no night for work."
Aiden looked up. "We still have the hinges for—"
"I said call it." Garrick's eyes were on the tree line beyond the fields. "Go home. Bar your door."
Aiden wiped his brow and nodded. "Yes, Master."
He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and stepped into the night. Fog curled around his boots, and the village felt smaller than usual, hunched beneath the weight of the night sky. The moon, impossibly large, cast every shadow sharply. It was quiet now. Too quiet. Even the dogs had gone silent.
As he walked past the well in the center of town, he saw the noticeboard posted with scraps—missing livestock, warnings about wolves, a sketch of a man wanted for theft in Hollowmere. The ink had run on most of them, and the parchment curled at the edges. He passed it without a second glance, his steps quickening.
His cottage stood near the edge of town, past the bakery and the tannery, beside an old willow that had long since choked out the garden his mother once tended. She had died when he was just a boy, taken by fever. His father, a hunter, had vanished five years ago during one of his excursions into the deeper woods.
Aiden barely remembered his mother's face His father's was clearer—stern, with a bristling beard and a voice like gravel. Sometimes Aiden thought he saw his silhouette in the woods. Dreams, he told himself.
He reached his door and fumbled with the latch. As he closed it behind him, he drew the iron bar across. It clanged into place with a reassuring finality. The hearth was still warm from the morning fire, and he stoked it back to life, feeding in fresh logs. He boiled a small pot of broth, tearing chunks of bread to soak in it.
He had just begun to eat when he heard it—the howl.
It wasn't the cry of a wolf. He had heard wolves before. This was something else, something deeper. It echoed in his bones. It was a cry of pain and rage and hunger, all wrapped into one.
The spoon clattered to the floor.
He stood, heart pounding. He pressed his ear to the door. Another howl split the night, closer this time. Then a scream—high and short-lived.
Aiden's legs moved before he thought. He unbarred the door and stepped into the fog. Cold bit at his skin, but he didn't feel it. Instinct guided him, pulling him toward the edge of the forest. The scream had come from the north fields.
"Idiot," he muttered to himself, but still he ran.
He passed the mill and saw the grain sacks spilled on the ground. A trail of dark liquid stained the grass.
And then he saw her.
Clara Whitfield, the baker's daughter. She stood just off the path, clutching something to her chest—her little brother, pale and unmoving. Her face was streaked with tears, and she shook like a leaf.
"He... it took him," she whispered. "He went to see the lights—he said there were lights—and it came out of the trees. I heard it. It looked at me."
Aiden took the boy's limp form gently. The child was still breathing, barely. Clara sobbed harder.
"What did you see?" Aiden asked softly.
"Eyes," she said. "Yellow. And teeth. So many teeth."
He carried the boy back toward the village as others began to emerge from their homes, lanterns in hand, faces pale.
That night, a hunting party was formed. Aiden volunteered, but Garrick grabbed his arm.
"You're no hunter, lad."
"I'm stronger than half of them. You said it yourself."
"I said you had arms like iron. That doesn't mean you're ready to face what's out there."
"I have to. It came from the woods. My father—he disappeared out there. If something's coming out of those trees, I need to know."
Garrick looked at him for a long time, then nodded once. "Don't be a hero. Just stay alive."
The search turned up little—claw marks on a tree trunk, too large for any wolf, a patch of torn cloth, blood in the ferns. By dawn, they returned with nothing to show but fear.
Aiden collapsed into bed. Sleep took him fast, and with it, darkness.
---
He stood in a clearing, moonlight dripping like silver rain. His hands were slick with blood—not his own. His breath came ragged. Before him lay a deer, its throat torn, its eyes wide.
He looked down at his arms. Fur. Claws. A low growl rose in his throat.
He stumbled back, horror growing with every step.
Then he woke.
The morning sun broke through the windows. His chest ached. He looked down and gasped.
A long, fresh scar marked his chest, still red and angry, as if branded. Around him, the sheets were torn, and on the floor lay muddy footprints that weren't his.
And worse—claw marks etched into the wooden floor.
Aiden Thorne's world had just changed forever.
And somewhere deep in the woods, somet
hing ancient stirred.
Something that had waited a long, long time.