"The club was supposed to be a place for drinks—until Mael discovered it was a hunting ground for werewolves.".
The village club was alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses, but beneath the warm lights and smoky air, Mael's instincts stirred. He hadn't come for anything more than a drink, a moment to wash the taste of blood and regret from his mouth. Yet even here, among careless chatter and drunken cheers, the scent of something darker threaded through the room.
Blood.
It was faint, hidden beneath perfume and sweat, but to Mael's sharpened senses, it might as well have been smeared across the walls. His grip tightened around his glass as his amber eyes scanned the crowd. He wasn't the only predator here.
Across the dance floor, three men stood too still, too calm for the chaos around them. Their gazes swept the villagers not with curiosity, but calculation—like wolves stalking sheep.
Kalen. Soran. Draven.
Mael didn't know their names yet, but the moment their eyes locked on him, he felt the truth ripple through his veins. They weren't human.
The music throbbed, but suddenly the club felt colder, the laughter thinner. Villagers carried on oblivious, but Mael could hear it—heartbeats quickening, a mother pulling her daughter closer, a drunk man stumbling away from the looming tension. His own pulse matched the rhythm of war drums.
Mael moved. Slowly at first, weaving through the crowd with a predator's patience. The three strangers mirrored him, spreading out, closing in. The air thickened with the metallic tang of imminent violence.
One of them, tall and broad with scarred hands, brushed past a group of young villagers. His lips curled into a smirk, exposing the faintest glint of fang. Mael's breath deepened. These weren't wanderers. They were hunters.
He intercepted them by the far wall, near the dim glow of a broken light. "You're far from home," Mael muttered, voice low but edged like steel.
The leader—Kalen, his eyes a storm-gray that reflected no mercy—smirked. "So are you, protector." The word dripped with mockery.
The music blared on, but the floor beneath them seemed to tilt, the whole club narrowing into this moment. Villagers laughed only steps away, unaware that monsters stood among them.
Then the first blow landed.
Kalen lunged, his fist slicing the air with supernatural speed. Mael caught it, the shock of impact rattling the table beside them, glasses shattering as people screamed. The club erupted into chaos.
Soran and Draven moved with practiced precision, one striking from behind, the other circling like a vulture. Mael twisted, his instincts roaring to life. His fist cracked against Draven's jaw, sending him crashing into the bar, splinters flying.
The music screeched to a stop.
Villagers froze, their eyes wide, reality crashing over them in waves. They didn't see men fighting. They saw claws flash where hands had been, eyes burning with unnatural light, shadows stretching into monstrous shapes. And at the center of it all—Mael, no longer just a villager, but something else entirely.
Fear spread like fire. Screams broke the air as people scrambled for the doors, overturning tables, spilling drinks, trampling one another in desperation.
"Monster!" someone cried.
Mael heard it, but he couldn't afford distraction. His claws had already torn through Soran's sleeve, leaving behind not just blood but a glint of silver embroidery. A crest. A mark. Before Soran ripped free, Mael snatched the fabric, shoving it into his pocket even as his enemies regrouped.
Kalen snarled, eyes glowing crimson. "This isn't over."
With inhuman speed, the three vanished into the night, their departure as sudden as their arrival. The club lay in ruins—shattered glass, overturned chairs, blood streaked across the floor.
And silence.
Every villager who hadn't escaped now pressed themselves against the walls, trembling, their gazes fixed on Mael. His chest heaved, his claws still extended, his eyes burning gold in the dim light. The truth was laid bare before them.
He wasn't just Mael, their neighbor, their friend. He was the beast. The protector who could just as easily become their doom.
The last of the music died in a faint echo, replaced by the ragged breaths of the fearful. Mothers shielded their children, men clenched fists they knew were useless, and whispers spread like wildfire.
"Was he fighting them?"
"Or is he one of them?"
"No… he's worse."
Mael's throat tightened. The weight of their stares crushed harder than any enemy's fist. He hadn't chosen this. He hadn't wanted this. Yet here he stood, blood on his hands, fear in their eyes.
He turned, forcing himself toward the exit. As he stepped into the cool night, he felt the villagers' gazes burn into his back—scared, accusing, uncertain.
Only once the night air embraced him did he pull the torn fabric from his pocket. The crest shimmered faintly under the moonlight, a sigil he didn't recognize but one that pulsed with promise.
Answers. A trail. Proof that these were not random hunters
. Someone had sent them.
And now Mael had the key to find out who.