The Valley of the Dead was shaken by the incident Adam Wolf would later name "The Intruders." A year had passed since Sirius's escape, but this… this was no simple flight.
Exile had turned into a swamp of traitors, thieves, and creatures cast out from every corner of the nearby and distant lands. The fights among the exiles had spiraled out of control, and blood was spilled daily in the Valley of the Dead. Adam Wolf knew that if he did nothing, the place would descend into endless slaughter.
So he sent a letter—not an ordinary one, but a desperate call, signed in his own blood, addressed to the three great regions. He begged for help, but more than that, he demanded order.
The answers came swiftly. Two letters reached him. He broke the seal of Moldavia on the first. His eyes froze upon the heavy inked words.
"Two believers…" he muttered, feeling the weight of each syllable. He set the parchment aside, his hand still clenching the edge of the table. Then he tore open the second seal—the Army of the East. The response was brief, sharp. Addressed to Adolf Wolf, it declared that four hunters would be sent.
Only Transylvania's reply was missing. Engulfed in its own civil war, it had no blood to spare for anyone else's battles.
That very day, the darkness that swept over the Valley of the Dead carried with it hatred, anticipation, and the silent promise that not everyone who entered would live to leave. The cold evening wind swept through Wolf Castle's courtyard, carrying the smell of damp earth and burnt leaves. From the horizon, six figures approached at full gallop, shadows carved against the pale light of the moon.
They had come in haste, answering Adam Wolf's call—the Lord of the Werewolves of the First Corner, head of the ancient and feared House of Wolf.
Two were Moldavian faithful, masters of sacred barriers. Four were hunters of Zor the Black, commander of the Army of the East. They had expected to find the castle surrounded by savage werewolf packs, fangs bared, ready to strike. But to their surprise, they found only tall, human figures—cold, sharp-eyed, storms hidden within their gazes. The Wolf descendants had mastered the art of holding their beastly forms in check.
From the highest tower, where Adam often spent his nights watching the borders, his gray eyes caught sight of the approaching riders. Without hesitation, he descended the spiral steps, his boots echoing against the wet stone. When he stepped into the courtyard, he greeted them with a piercing gaze and a voice that brooked no refusal:
— "Thank you for coming. The Exile is slipping beyond control."
The guests nodded, grateful for the welcome, yet burdened by guilt.
— "This is partly our doing," admitted Sister Lia. "We've been sending more outcasts than ever. In our regions… things are changing. And not for the better."
A brief silence followed, then resolve replaced words. There was no more time for stories. Action was all that remained.
Adam drew a line across the old map of Exile, splitting it into six sectors. Each would fall under the command of one of the new arrivals:
Sector 1 – Sister Lia, with her blessings and prayers.
Sector 2 – Hunter David, his bow ready to pierce the dark.
Sector 3 – Huntress Anca, eyes cold as steel.
Sector 4 – Father Radu, bearer of the cross and the sacred word.
Sector 5 – Hunter Stroe, with his deadly crossbow and cunning tricks.
Sector 6 – Hunter Spancioc, the quietest, yet the most merciless.
The torches flickered. Shadows danced across the castle walls. The plan was set. From this moment on, the Exile itself would be hunted—by those sworn to tame it.
It was as if a perfect order had descended over the Valley of the Dead. Each knew their place. Each felt the weight of duty burning in their chest. Their eyes said the same thing: they were ready. Ready to face whatever menace lurked, ready to defend the lives that still clung to this cursed land.
But the silence that fell over Exile was too heavy, too perfect. Unease coiled in the air, like a storm holding its breath before striking. Footsteps echoed alone along dusty paths, shadows stretching menacingly as the sun sank.
One by one, the six reached their posts, lone sentinels in the thick of silence. Their hands gripped weapons. Their hearts pounded with unspoken dread. They knew something was coming.
As midnight neared, the same cold wind swept across all six sectors. And in the depths of the dark… someone was already watching.
Sector 1 – The Prayer of the Stone
Sister Lia stepped into the abandoned village at the border. Flames devoured the houses, yet the wood refused to burn away. The heavy stench of smoke and charred flesh gripped her chest.
In the middle of the road, a woman knelt before a black stone, clutching what seemed to be a child. Her swollen, red eyes fixed on Lia with despair.
— "Run! Are you one of them?" she screamed.
Lia opened her mouth, but words died on her lips.
The small figure in the woman's arms was unnervingly still. Its hair clung wet to its neck, a dark drop sliding down the skin. The right hand twitched, spasming, fingers contorting like drowning spiders. Then, slowly—far too slowly—the head began to turn. A wet, grinding creak split the silence. When its hollow eyes locked on Lia, the flame in her lamp snuffed out, as if blown away.
Sector 2 – The Hunter's Stake
David pressed himself against the wall of a ruined structure, bow drawn, gaze fixed on three shadows moving through the mist. The black tattoos on their arms left no doubt—Transylvanian thieves.
— "It's time," he whispered.
The arrow flew. The first thief fell. But before the second could run, movement behind David froze his blood.
— "They are not your enemies, hunter…"
The voice was low, rusted. When he turned, a silver mask stared back at him, reflecting his own fear.
Sector 3 – The Corpse Trap
Anca crossed the Plateau of the Lost, her boots crunching over frozen ground. Fresh paw prints led her through the withered shrubs.
"Wild werewolves…" she thought, hand on her dagger.
The path broke suddenly. Before her yawned a pit covered with branches. The stench hit her first—rotting flesh, blood, mold.
Inside, two young men with bloodshot eyes tore at a corpse with their teeth. They raised their heads when they saw her, a guttural chuckle spilling from their throats.
— "You're not running?" she asked, gripping her blade.
One of them rose, trembling, and whispered through bloodied lips:
— "Run?… We've been waiting for you."
Sector 4 – The Curse of the Hanging Glade
Father Radu walked cautiously among twisted trees, iron cross held high. The forest breathed heavy, its silence deeper than death.
In the Glade of the Hanged, no wind stirred. Dozens of corpses dangled from the branches, eyeless sockets staring at him.
Then, the woods shuddered. From the black boughs, a hidden watcher stirred. A hunched silhouette perched atop a ridge, unmoving, unseen until now.
Sector 5 – The Blood of the Letter
In the Whispering Cave, Stroe advanced with his torch. He expected treasure, but found instead a small table stacked with letters bound in black string.
One lay open:
"Centurio,
Our forces are ready, waiting at the border. When the Red Moon is full, we shall open the Gates of Sector 6. – Signed, Pi."
A hiss made him snap his head. From the cold wall of the cavern, a figure with green eyes slid forward.
— "The hanged are those who read the letters of the dead, hunter…"
Sector 6 – The Dance of Death
The Warm Brook flowed gently, but its banks were burdened with bodies bound in silver cords, placed there deliberately. Spancioc approached with careful steps.
Then—one of the "corpses" opened its eyes. Golden, like a werewolf's. It smiled.
— "Welcome to the party," came the raspy, sinister laugh.
Back in the castle, trembling torchlight danced across the map of Exile spread upon the table. Adam's eyes traced the lines, each sector a promise of order… and of peril.
The door slammed open with a crack. Void, his second-in-command, staggered in, breath ragged, eyes dark. His left arm was clenched tight, fresh blood slipping through his fingers.
— "It's not just thieves and traitors…" his voice rasped, words burning his throat. "Somehow… intruders have crossed Exile's borders without us sensing them."
Adam's fists clenched. His eyes darkened, recognizing the signs he had ignored too long.
— "Prepare the army," he hissed. "We are no longer facing thieves. We are facing an invasion."
On the map, six pawns marked the allies' positions. One—the pawn of Sister Lia—flickered, then faded.
"Sector 1 in danger," he whispered, jaw tight.
As the night deepened, more pawns trembled, like candles snuffed by an unseen wind.
And then… the first howl tore through the dark.