The road was little more than a scar carved into the mountain. Worn stones jutted up like broken teeth, and every gust of wind carried the sting of cold mist rolling down from the peaks. A pale moon hovered above the ridges, veiled by clouds that refused to clear. Few dared travel this high, this late, but Xavier had no choice. He walked with his cloak drawn tight against the chill, boots crunching over gravel, each step taking him farther into silence.
At his side, his arm throbbed again. The scar. Always the scar. It was an ugly mark, curved and jagged, twisting around his forearm like a burn. In the half-light it seemed alive, pulsing faintly beneath the skin as if it had its own heartbeat. He flexed his fingers, willing the ache to fade, but the sensation only grew sharper the closer he drew to the village.
He told himself it was nothing. Just the cold. Just the climb. But deep inside, he knew better. The scar had always burned most fiercely beneath a swollen moon.
Through the fog, shapes slowly took form—slanted rooftops sagging under the weight of age, windows shuttered tight against the world. The village crouched low in the valley like prey hiding from a predator, its narrow cobblestone streets twisting inward as though afraid to reach the edges of the forest. No smoke curled from chimneys, though the air carried a bitter cold. It was as if life itself had retreated indoors.
Xavier paused at the rotting gate. The wood groaned when he pushed it open, the sound carrying too far in the silence. For a moment, he thought he saw movement in the mist beyond the houses—something slipping between shadows, watching. His scar flared with heat, sharp enough to make him wince. He blinked hard, and the shape was gone.
The streets lay empty.
He walked on, the village pressing close around him. Old signs swung weakly in the wind, their paint faded beyond recognition. Doors were barred, shutters sealed. Yet he felt eyes on him, peering through cracks, following his every step.
Then, a sound—small feet pattering across stone. He turned sharply. A boy stood frozen in the street no more than a few paces away, his clothes threadbare, his face gaunt. The boy's wide eyes flicked to Xavier's arm where the sleeve had slipped back, exposing the scar.
The child gasped. His lips parted as though to scream, but no sound came—only a whisper.
"The mark…"
Before Xavier could speak, the boy bolted, vanishing into the fog. The echo of his hurried footsteps faded, leaving Xavier in heavier silence than before.
He tugged his sleeve down and clenched his jaw. Always the same. Fear. Whispers. Eyes that saw something more than a wound. He had grown used to it, but the weight never lessened. No matter how far he wandered, no matter how small the village or how broken the road, the scar marked him as other.
He was omega. Or so his father had said. The weakest rank. The runt. The one cast out, forced to wander alone.
Xavier shook the memory away like ash. He would not think of his father tonight.
At last he found an inn, its crooked sign swaying above the door. The building leaned as though it had long since grown tired of standing. A lantern burned weakly inside. Xavier pushed the door open and stepped into the dim, smoky room.
The innkeeper glanced up from behind a counter. He was a thin man with hollow cheeks and eyes too sharp for his tired face. His gaze lingered on Xavier, and for a heartbeat his expression faltered. He looked not at Xavier's face, but at his arm.
"You'll be wanting a room?" the man asked, his voice rough.
"Yes," Xavier said. "If you have one."
The innkeeper hesitated before nodding. "I've got rooms. Few pass this way anymore." He pulled a key from the wall but did not hand it over. Instead, he leaned forward. "You're not from here."
"No."
"No one comes here," the man muttered, glancing toward the shuttered windows. "Not since the howling began."
Xavier frowned. "Howling?"
The innkeeper's jaw tightened. "Best you bar your door tonight, stranger. Don't open the window. Don't answer if you hear a voice call your name. The mountain's cursed. You'll understand soon enough."
He slid the key across the counter at last. "Second door on the left, upstairs. Pray you sleep."
Xavier took it without another word and climbed the stairs. The hallway was dim, the air heavy with the scent of mildew. His room was small: a narrow bed, a warped basin, a shuttered window. He shut the door behind him and sat, back pressed to the wall.
The silence pressed in, broken only by the groaning timbers of the inn. His scar throbbed harder now, each pulse in time with his heart. He stared at it until his vision blurred. Why did it burn so? Why did the boy whisper as if he knew it?
Because you're cursed, he thought bitterly. Because you're nothing. Because you're omega.
He lay back, but sleep did not come easily. When at last it did, it was shallow, restless. He dreamed of forests thick with fog, of eyes glowing in the dark, of claws scraping across stone.
He woke to a sound that did not belong to dreams.
A howl.
Long, low, and mournful, it rose from the forest and rolled across the mountains, setting the village to trembling. Xavier sat upright, every nerve awake. Another howl answered, closer, sharp and furious. Then another. And another. Soon the night was alive with voices not of men but of beasts.
His scar seared white-hot, forcing a hiss through his teeth. He pressed his hand over it, but the burning only deepened. It was as if the howls called to it, to him.
From below came the slam of doors, the scrape of bolts. Villagers hurried to seal themselves away, their fear thick in the air. But beneath their panic lay something worse—resignation. This was not new. This was not the first night of howling.
Xavier swung his feet to the floor and crept to the window. He unlatched the shutter just enough to peer through. The moon had clawed free of the clouds, swollen and silver. Its light carved sharp shadows through the fog.
And there—movement. Figures slipped between houses, fast and silent. Too fast. Their eyes glowed faintly, catching the moonlight. Claws scraped against cobblestone. Shapes hunched and shifted, more beast than man.
Werewolves.
The sound of them stirred something deep in his chest. The howls were not just noise; they were vibration, resonance, a call that rattled through his bones. His scar burned with every note, a brand answering a summons he could not understand.
He forced the shutter closed and pressed his back to the wall, breath shallow.
Don't open the window. Don't wander.
The innkeeper's warning pounded in his mind, but curiosity clawed at him. He had lived his life as an outcast, told he was weak, told he was less than the others. Yet when the howls rose, his blood answered. The scar blazed. He did not feel weak at all.
Outside, the chorus of beasts grew louder. A scream ripped through the fog—human, raw with terror—then cut off as suddenly as it began. Silence followed, broken only by the sound of claws retreating into mist.
Xavier sat in the darkness, fists clenched, scar searing. He had never felt more alone. Yet in that loneliness stirred something dangerous, something alive.
The night belonged to the beasts.
And for the first time, Xavier wondered if it also belonged to him