The club was a carcass of broken wood and spilled blood. Tables lay overturned, chairs snapped in half, bottles shattered into glittering shards that sparkled faintly under the flickering lanterns. The smell of iron was thick in the air, and beneath it lingered something fouler—the scent of wet fur and death.
Mael stood at the center of it all, chest heaving, claws slowly retracting into trembling hands. Around him, the bodies of slain werewolves sprawled grotesquely, their twisted forms already cooling. A silence pressed in, broken only by the faint whimpers of villagers huddled in the corners.
He turned, expecting gratitude. But instead, their eyes widened in terror. Mothers shielded their children, men pulled loved ones closer. No one thanked him. No one moved toward him.
A whisper cracked through the air like a knife:
"Is he… one of them too?"
The words struck harder than claws. Mael's jaw tightened. He wanted to shout that he had saved them, that he had stood between them and death. But the reflection in their eyes told him another story. They hadn't seen a savior tonight—they had seen a beast unleashed.
---
His gaze fell on a broken shard of glass glinting on the floor. He crouched and caught his reflection. For a heartbeat, it wasn't his face staring back. The jaw was elongated, teeth bared, eyes glowing with the feral red haze of the blood moon.
He blinked, and the vision snapped away—only his sweat-streaked human face remained. But his stomach twisted. If his reflection betrayed him, what would the villagers see when they looked upon him?
The memory of his father slammed into his mind. Locked away in the silver-lined library, pacing like a caged animal, a man no longer. Was that where he was headed? A prison, a life of walls, feared by those he loved?
His hands shook harder. He clenched them until his nails dug crescents into his palms.
Am I protecting them… or becoming what they fear most?
---
A groan cut through the silence. Mael turned sharply. One of the fallen werewolves wasn't dead. The creature dragged itself through the splintered wreckage, blood trailing behind. Its fur was matted, eyes dim with dying fire, but its lips still curled into a cruel smile.
"You…" it rasped, voice thick with blood. "You… are no savior." It coughed, spitting crimson. "Kael… knows of you now. You've made yourself prey."
Its laughter was weak, broken, but it slithered through the club like smoke. The creature collapsed, body finally giving up, but its words lingered like an omen.
Kael knows of you now.
Mael's pulse thundered in his ears. Whoever—or whatever—Kael was, the shadows of his kingdom were now reaching for him.
---
The door creaked open, and cold night air slipped inside. Selona stepped into the ruined hall with a grace that made her seem untouched by the chaos. Her cloak trailed behind her, catching faint moonlight as if it carried its own glow.
She did not look at the corpses first. She looked at the villagers, trembling in their corners. With a single sweep of her hand, a faint shimmer spread like mist. The deepest cuts on one wounded man closed, his ragged breath steadying. Whispers of awe replaced fear, but the people did not step closer. They only stared.
Selona's eyes finally found Mael. For a moment, he couldn't read them—pity, disappointment, or something darker.
"You fought well," she said softly, her voice carrying like a calm wind. "But every strike pulls you closer to the edge. Can you not feel it?"
Mael stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"The curse," she replied, stepping over a body with chilling ease. "It claims more of you each time. Tonight you were not a man fighting wolves—you were a beast fighting its own kind. Tell me, Mael… when the moon fades, will you still recognize yourself?"
Her words pressed against the very fear gnawing at him. He opened his mouth, but no answer came.
Selona's gaze drifted to the slain werewolf who had delivered its warning. "Kael will not let this pass. He has waited for a weapon like you to reveal itself. And now… he will come."
Mael swallowed hard, unease scraping his throat. "Then let him. If he wants a fight, he'll find one."
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. "Be careful what you invite, Mael. Not all battles are meant to be won. Some… are meant to consume."
---
The villagers slowly began to rise, but they didn't move toward him. Their whispers followed him like shadows as he stepped out of the ruined club. He could feel their stares boring into his back, heavy with fear and uncertainty.
No one thanked him.
No one called him hero.
---
Outside, the night was thick, the air heavy with smoke and blood. The blood moon hung above like a watching eye, casting everything in its crimson glow. Mael walked down the empty road, the silence pressing close around him.
Each step echoed with questions he could not shake. He thought of his father's snarling face behind silver walls. He thought of his mother's lifeless body. He thought of Selona's warning: Every strike pulls you closer to the edge.
The more he replayed the battle, the less he remembered his own control. There were flashes—teeth tearing, claws raking, growls that had not sounded human. He had fought like something born of the wild, something that enjoyed the bloodshed.
His hand touched his chest, feeling the wild heartbeat still hammering there. He was afraid—not of the werewolves, not even of Kael—but of himself.
---
The wind shifted. Somewhere beyond the trees, faint and distant, a howl rose. It wasn't like the ordinary call of wolves. This one was sharper, almost a name stretched into sound.
His name.
"Mael…"
The hairs on his arms bristled. His steps faltered. He lo
oked to the horizon, but the night revealed nothing.
Yet he knew.
He was being called.