It all comes down to power. Truth and lies? Just two sides of the same coin, tossed into the hands of those who dare to control them.
Far from the eyes of the world, where roads end in the darkness of forests and the wind whispers old legends, a plot takes shape. At the edge of a forgotten village, in the exiled land of Western Wallachia, darkness finds a voice.
A pack of werewolves, tormented by hatred and ambition, plan a massacre—not against their blood enemies, but against their own brothers. In their eyes flickers the same hunger that kept them alive for decades: the desire to rule.
After the Great Pact — the treaty that ended the First Cursed War — the Four Chains rose as guardians of balance, deciding that the three great regions would close their borders and never again intervene in each other's affairs. But this Pact did not come easily. Long years of spilled blood, fragile alliances, and terrible betrayals pushed the world to the edge of the abyss until, finally, it was decided that, after its signing, five sacred laws would be written—laws that could not be broken.
Thus, the map was divided: Moldova in the East, given to the Catholic Church; the South, left in the hands of the vampires; and Wallachia, torn in two: Eastern Wallachia, kept by the hunters, and Western Wallachia, given to the werewolves. But in the shadow of this armistice, evil did not die. It merely waited.
As the years passed, tension grew, smoldering like embers under ashes. In Western Wallachia, Adam Wolf — the Alpha werewolf who bore in his fangs and claws the weight of peace — ruled over the Promised Land, an unexiled land where humans and werewolves tried to live together in harmony, free from harm. Adam not only tolerated the presence of humans, he protected them, driven by a single wish: to keep alive the fragile flame of this peace at any cost.
But far away, at the dark borders, stretched the Valley of the Dead — the exiled zone under the rule of Loki, another Alpha werewolf whose blood boiled at the scent of death and chaos. The Valley of the Dead existed long before the First Cursed War began: a place of the condemned, where the banished were sent to be forgotten, where traitors were sent to die. An edge of the world, bordering the Danube, Eastern Wallachia, and a neutral state for centuries, into which few dared to step.
Between these two worlds, the border was guarded by ritual signs carved into the bark of old trees: protective runes that kept the exiled from crossing into the Promised Land. But just as evil is born of hatred, so hatred, in turn, breeds the desire for massacre—a wild craving that burns your very body.
The Valley of the Dead did not host only isolated werewolves. In the years after the Pact, exiled vampires, corrupt hunters, fallen churchmen who had sinned—all who had broken the imposed laws—were banished here. And yet, over the years, there were exiles who found ways to escape, so for decades the guard had been strengthened and the limits of the barrier extended. There, in that darkness where the laws of the world faded, the seed of a new threat sprouted—one that could overturn everything the Great Pact had sworn to protect.
Even under the weight of the Great Pact, conflicts did not die. The desire for blood is a call no accursed can silence, and power remains the path for those willing to trample any law. In the dark heart of exile, small hybrid groups formed: some seeking atonement, others thirsty for blood, and others still carrying forbidden secrets in their chests.
Among them, the Group of the Rebels shone in the darkness—a pack of werewolves in whom the seed of betrayal and hope grew together. On frozen nights, hidden from the moon, they whispered escape plans with low voices, like the murmur of wind through ruins. Recently, they had been joined by two persecuted hunters, brought here because, in the name of Wallachia, they had raised their swords against two voivode heirs; a crime that could not be forgiven.
In exile, however, nothing remains as it seems. Life and death lose their borders, and friendship and betrayal blend into the same cold mist. Even shadows seem to lie, and the truth remains buried under the ashes of fear. Yet, the desire for freedom burns in their chests, fiercer than hunger. Few have ever escaped this cursed place; most met their end between the guardians' fangs, and their names were lost without trace.
But even so, in the dead of night, when the wind carries whispers through the darkness, the same question echoes, heavy with fear and confusion:
"Why does Loki, who loves blood more than life itself, not escape?"
A secret hidden from all eyes, known only to a few… carried silently, like an old curse that could overturn everything the world believes it knows.
On the night before Ioh began his journey to the Church of Saint Corvin, when the midnight hour struck silently, and the full moon rose in the sky spilling a blood-red light over the Valley of the Dead, the Group of the Rebels decided to make their first move.
The group consisted of eight werewolves with fur stained by old blood and two hunters with stone-cold gazes, as if fate itself had sent them for this escape. Their first mission was one of terrible danger: infiltration at the border, where the ritual signs separated the world of the free from that of the accursed, signs that kept evil at bay.
Without hesitation, they split into two smaller teams, shadows among shadows, their steps barely touching the dry earth. At the border, the change of guard took place under the pale light of the moon. The Fang Guard, the troop of werewolves guarding the runes, had just taken their posts, scanning each tree, each stone with confident eyes. But among these guardians were two young, inexperienced werewolves, on their first patrol, their first mission. Unskilled, unaware, they stepped beyond the marked limit on the tree trunks, crossing into the territory of the exiled.
From the shadow of a hollow oak, the Group of the Rebels leapt like starving beasts. In an instant, they brought them down and chained them with rusty chains.
The leader of the group, Sirius, approached slowly, his claws short so as not to hinder his movement. His fur was black as night, and his fangs seemed painted with old, time-forgotten blood. His eyes gleamed with a sick thirst for revenge.
In a deep, hissing voice, almost like a call from the depths of hell, he spoke:
— "Bring him closer… I want to look at him… To see his eyes, to understand why a brother keeps me captive!"
The young guardian, trembling, was dragged forward, pulled to face the tyrant. Sirius's gaze darkened further, and a cruel smile twisted his fangs.
— "You too must taste the pain of exile… to feel what it's like to be forgotten by the world, as I was!"
He reached out, tore off the armor that allowed him to cross the protective runes. Without blinking, Sirius seized his head with merciless strength and, with a jerk, broke his jaw. A dry crack shattered the night's silence, and the young man fell to his knees, powerless, unable to utter a sound, consumed by pain.
Sirius bent near him, whispering with almost mad pleasure and cold cruelty:
— "See? Words matter no more here… only fangs and blood decide your fate."
He then tied him to the tree trunk, leaving him prey to pain. As darkness deepened, the full moon seemed to redden even more, as a portent of the bloodshed to come.
The second guardian, eyes wide with fear, understood at that moment what he had to do. Without hesitation, he plunged his claws into his own throat, and hot blood spurted onto the dirty grass. He fell without a sound, and at that moment, the runes that separated exile from the free land vibrated, like an alarm bell announcing great danger.
The ancient barrier flared in a reddish light, a sign that its highest protection had been activated. Somewhere in the distance, the Fang Guard felt the call, knew that one of them had committed suicide; and in their chests, their hearts began to beat faster, and their steps echoed resolute into the night. They knew what to do: to hunt, to kill, to defend their territory.
Sirius, who had watched everything with a twisted smile, blinked once, surprised. He had not expected such a quick reaction. For a moment, his thirst for blood was overshadowed by a spark of reason—but only for a moment.
Then, his mind darkened again, seized by a mad thought: "I will kill them all… I will escape alone… I need no one!"
In a low voice, heavy as a death knell, he turned to his brothers in the Group of the Rebels and ordered:
— "Split up! Find the way out, one by one!"
His eyes gleamed, sick with the pleasure of massacre. In his mind, escape had become just a pretext—the true craving was their blood.
Sirius ran his tongue over his red fangs, sharp as daggers, and in a low voice, full of a kind of sick joy, he whispered:
— "Let the hunt begin…"
The shadows began to flee, but for Sirius, it was all a game. Every scent, every flicker of fear guided him like a guiding star. And, one by one, he found them. Every rustle, every sigh became a reason for pleasure.
One of the werewolves, eyes brimming with terror, fell to his knees and whispered faintly:
— "Sirius… why? We are brothers…"
Sirius smiled as his claws tore into his chest:
— "Brotherhood is just a word… But blood, blood is all that matters!"
And his bites ended the plea.
With every life taken, his madness strengthened. His fangs throbbed with pleasure, and the hot blood burned through his veins. With an almost whispered laugh, he ran his tongue over his lips again and murmured, in a kind of ecstasy:
— "What mad pleasure I feel… I can't seem to stop…"
Behind him, the forest became a cemetery of shadows. With their last breath, in the eyes of those he hunted, the same cruel truth could be read: in exile, the greatest mistake is to believe you can have allies.
And when at last the Fang Guard arrived at the scene of the massacre, all they found were torn bodies, and from among the trees stepped Sirius, heavy-footed, his body stained with blood, but with a calm, cunning gaze.
— "I got rid of all those accursed ones…" he said in a faint but firm voice.
— "No one got past us. We lost one of our own, but we saved the border."
The guardians, with their cruel eyes, nodded, impressed. One of them said:
— "Long live the Fang Guard!"
But in Sirius's mind, another thought echoed, deep and frightening: "And now… it will be your turn. But not yet… not yet…"
Dawn slowly rose over the dense branches of the trees, and the air smelled of wet earth and something darker… something that could not be named.
The changing of the guard brought brief agitation, enough to give Sirius the perfect opportunity to escape. With an almost faint smile, he slipped his steps among the guardians, leaving behind only the scent of blood and shadows that seemed to follow him. No one suspected that in his heart boiled a plan darker than the night that had passed.
Behind him, the valley remained silent—only the torn bodies whispered the truth of betrayal and hatred. And in the distance, in another corner of this world torn by broken oaths and forgotten curses, another destiny continued its path.
Ioh, the monk hunter, drew his cloak tighter, fastened his sword to his back, kissed the sanctified cross at his neck, and at dawn set out. In his heart, a single desire: to solve the first trial of the riddle, and then to break an enchanted sleep… and perhaps, to uncover other mysteries.
The sun slowly rose, casting long, cold light over untrodden roads, and between darkness and light, more destinies began to move, unseen, toward each other. And no one yet knew… that their journey would change everything that once seemed unshakable.