The pawn from Sector 5 was caught in a web born from nothingness, thin and shining pale, like a silver thread torn from mist. The fabric tightened around him more and more, until a red drop slid onto the map, tracing a thin path toward the edge of the paper — a path that recalled the silver strings hanging between the trees near the Warm Stream.
In Sector 6, silence was only a mask. The Warm Stream continued its slow course, but its banks were burdened with a mute weight: bodies hanging lifeless, brought here on purpose. The corpses were entangled in silver strings that gleamed faintly in the flickering light. Every knot seemed to breathe death. Spancioc moved forward slowly, with measured steps, prepared for anything. No trick could surprise him.
After the guard and the hunter Stroe sank deeper along the bank of the Warm Stream, the atmosphere changed. Their gazes followed them. The eyes of the dead opened one by one, but one among them shone more intensely – two golden lights, cold and dusty, like those of a werewolf in the night. His smile widened slowly, revealing sharp fangs, as the body began to transform. Fingers with long, black claws gently undid the knot around his neck with macabre indifference.
— Welcome to the party, his voice resounded, hoarse and full of sinister amusement.
Before Spancioc could grab the hilt of his sword, a strange sound split the air. The knots that held the dead bound suddenly loosened, falling like snakeskins. But not only they moved – the weapons came alive as well. Spancioc's sword sheath twitched, and the blade began to twist, the metal melting, turning into a living creature.
From the sheath a glossy serpent was born, its scales sharp as razor blades, and instead of a hilt, a steel head with open jaws and a forked tongue. Other weapons followed – daggers, swords, axes – all contorting into metallic beings that coiled around men's arms, tearing their flesh or driving themselves into them like murderous beasts.
Spancioc felt a sharp tail scratch his cheek, leaving behind a trail of warm blood. They were not mere weapons. They were charms.
And then, the dead were no longer dead.
The hanging bodies shuddered, their gray skin cracking in places, revealing black fur underneath. Their bones snapped, transforming into claws, elongated muzzles, and twisted muscles of creatures of the night. Their eyes filled with the same animal aura, and from their throats came a collective growl, a short, bloody laugh.
Spancioc remained the only one untouched. Surrounded by the pack of werewolves who tore the guards apart like rag dolls. But there was no animal joy in their movements – rather, an unnatural discipline. Every attack was calculated, every leap coordinated.
And then, beyond those beastly silhouettes dancing in fresh blood, Stroe saw someone standing still. A smaller man, almost child-height, with a silver mask cracked in five places. His hand rose in a subtle gesture, and the werewolves responded instantly. They attacked only in the direction indicated.
Spancioc felt fear seize him. A feeling he thought long forgotten pierced his marrow. This was not just an attack. It was an army led by someone – someone who knew how to control the charm.
Spancioc stood surrounded, his breathing heavy, his piercing eyes measuring the circle of werewolves closing in. Every muscle of his body was tensed, his hunter's instinct whispering to fight until the end, until death. But the pack did not attack, they waited.
Then, from behind them, a corridor opened, and the silver mask with five cracks spoke. His voice resounded like the hiss of wind through the cracks of a tomb:
— Do you want to join the night, hunter? To change your blood with ours?
Spancioc did not tremble. He knew there was no retreat anymore. The guards were torn apart, the weapons had turned into beasts, and the ground beneath him seemed to breathe with dark life. A hunter dies with dignity – but a hunter lives at any cost. Without words, only with his gaze, Stroe refused the proposal. Fight was the only solution.
But a small vial, filled with a thick violet liquid, rolled to his feet. The liquid flickered faintly, as if it had its own pulse.
— Drink if you want to live. Through this you swear loyalty to us.
Spancioc did not hesitate. Ready to smash the vial with his boot. But… he didn't even get to crush it. The legionary with the child's body grabbed his face. He clung to Stroe's face with his left hand as if floating. With his next gesture, the legionary pulled out another vial with the same thick, violet liquid. He removed the stopper and poured it forcefully into the hunter's mouth. With a jerk, Stroe threw his head back. He broke free from the masked one's hand, but swallowed only a single gulp of the liquid, spitting out the rest. A bitter sting burned his throat.
Then, agony seized him.
He tore the clothes off his body, his chest burning as if his skin were melting. His mouth opened in a mute scream, his tongue swelling, the fangs in his jaws growing and tearing through his gums under the strike of an unseen knife. His fingers lengthened, his nails turning into crooked black claws, digging into the ground to anchor his writhing body. Hair multiplied over his whole body, a black spiky fur bursting from his pores, while his spine arched into a bestial curve. He bit his lips until they bled, trying to keep his last human thought – his daughter's name… Sora, which he had whispered every night like a prayer. But with every heartbeat, the memory melted, replaced by a new instinct, foreign… and terrifyingly familiar… submission.
The legionary watched, his hand raised in the air, his fingers clenched into a fist. His eyes shone beneath the mask, his ecstasy growing with every change of Spancioc.
And then, everything stopped.
Before the masked one, a moment ago stood a man; now stood a massive werewolf, his chest rising in heavy breaths, his eyes – now golden and cruel – fixed on his master. The legionary let his hand fall, satisfied.
— Welcome to the night, he whispered, turning toward the darkness.
The packs had already withdrawn, melted into the shadows. But they left behind only the echo of the heavy breathing of the new Spancioc.
At the same moment, miles away, where the castle walls swallowed any light, Adam Wolf's map pulsed violently – as if it felt every heartbeat of the new werewolf. All the pawns had fallen, and now the parchment no longer represented the Exile – it was the Exile. The door burst into black flames, Adam raising his ink-covered hands that now burned.
Adam Wolf knew he was the only one who could rid his land of this evil that had descended upon it… Thus he prepared…