John's POV
Watching Raymond hoist great burdens with ease, his muscles scarcely straining and no sweat upon his brow, stirred memories I had long tried to bury.
In those moments, I was reminded of his blood, of the truth that ran through him like a quiet storm. My thoughts drifted back to the day he came to us, the fateful day when the city of Valencia stood still and the world I knew was forever changed.
Flashback
I had been tending to my medical tools, preparing to visit one of the villagers under my care. Around me, life carried on as it always had merchants calling out their wares, women drawing water, children laughing in the dust. Then it happened.
A hush fell upon the village, heavy and sudden, like the breath before a storm.
I looked up and saw them.
Massive wolves far larger than any beast known to our lands, emerging from the forest and pouring into the village. Their pelts were thick, their eyes sharp with intelligence far beyond that of animals. They were not ordinary wolves, and every soul present knew it.
Fear spread like wildfire. Some screamed. Others fled.
These were the creatures of legend, spoken of only in whispers by the elders, wolves that could shed their skins and walk as men. Werewolves, they were called.
For thousands of years, they had vanished from the world, their history fading into myth, their existence reduced to half-forgotten tales told by firelight. Many believed them no more than children's stories.
But my father had known better.
Before his death, he entrusted me with an ancient book, its pages worn and yellowed with age. It chronicled the histories of supernatural beings werewolves among them. He spoke of a time, a thousand years past, when humans and these creatures lived together in uneasy harmony, until the Dance shattered that peace and bathed the world in blood.
"They will return," he told me once, his voice grave. "Perhaps in your lifetime, or perhaps in another's. When they do, you must help set right the sins of our forefathers."
And now they stood before me.
The wolves continued their advance until they reached the heart of the village. There they halted. From among them, two stepped forward, a great red wolf and a white one, whose presence commanded the rest. Even without words, I knew the white wolf was their leader.
As they drew nearer, my breath caught in my throat.
The white wolf carried something gently in its jaws.
A child.
They came to a stop before me, and the white wolf lowered its head, laying the infant at my feet. Both wolves bent down and began to lick the baby softly, tenderly, as parents would. There was no mistaking the bond between them.
Understanding dawned upon me like a cruel sunrise. This child was theirs, but how?
I knelt and lifted the child into my arms. He was a boy, no more than a few weeks old, with a shock of white hair already crowning his head.
When I looked back at the wolves, I felt their sorrow like a blade to the heart their pain, their reluctance to part with their son. I did not know why they had chosen me, nor why they could not keep the child themselves. But I swore to them then, with all the conviction I possessed, that I would raise him as my own.
I promised I would protect him.
And I hoped foolishly, perhaps that we would meet again.
After what felt like an eternity, the white wolf lifted its head and released a howl so mournful it tore through every soul present.
The red wolf joined the cry, and soon the others took it up, their voices rising together into a chorus of grief and farewell. The sound echoed across the hills and through the stones of Valencia, a lament both terrible and beautiful, a song of loss that no man who heard it would ever forget.
Then, as swiftly as they had come, they turned away and they were gone.
That very day, they vanished into the forest, leaving behind silence, fear, and a child who would change my life forever.
For sixteen long years, I searched for them. I studied the ancient texts my father left behind, chased rumors, and listened for whispers in the night wind. I waited for their return, but they never came.
Raising Raymond was no easy task. I took him into my home when he was barely weeks old, and from the beginning, he was unlike any child I had ever known.
His hair grew long and white as fresh fallen snow. His eyes were gold, shot through with rings of silver eyes many villagers said looked more like a wolf's than a man's.
His features were sharp and striking, his body strong and well-built long before his years demanded it.
He possessed strength beyond reason. He could lift what grown men struggled to move, and he bore wounds that healed with unnatural speed. Some whispered that he carried a curse. Others feared him outright. His gift of healing, which should have brought gratitude, instead drove many away.
It pained me deeply to see the things he endured the stares, the muttered words, the quiet cruelty. This place was never meant to be his home. I knew it in my bones. He was made for greater things, for a destiny beyond the narrow minds of this village. If only they could see him as I did.
A good boy.
A gentle soul.
My son.
"Father, I'm done bringing in the wood," Raymond's voice broke through my thoughts. "Is there anything else you need?"
I shook myself free of memory and smiled. "No. Go inside. I bought fresh rabbits at the morning market. Eat before you head out."
"All right, Father," he said with a chuckle. "But you don't have to do that next time. You know I enjoy hunting my own meat."
"I know you are self-sufficient," I replied softly. "But remember this you are my child, and I will care for you as long as I draw breath. Let me do these small things while I still can… before some young lady steals you away from me."
He laughed. "It's not as though I'm leaving you anytime soon. I plan to live with you all the days of our lives."
He turned and went inside the house, leaving warmth in his wake.
My expression darkened as the door closed behind him.
Raymond had always been good kind, respectful, even though many villagers despised him for what happened years ago, an incident born of fear and ignorance, never of malice. Their hatred had not hardened his heart.
He knew I was not his true father, yet he had never asked how he came to me. He spoke often of staying with me forever, though deep down we both knew such a promise could not stand against fate.
Sometimes, I feared I had failed him.
For two years now, his body had been changing. He thought I did not notice, but I had followed him once, on a bitterly cold night, into the woods. Under the light of the full moon, I watched him lower himself into the village lake, steam rising from his skin as though his blood burned too hot.
Then I understood.
The truth I had long dreaded had come to claim him.
He was changing, and the change would not be gentle.
The prophecy weighed heavily upon him, though he did not yet know its words. I loved him as my own flesh and blood, and every moment we had shared I would cherish until my dying day. But he deserved the truth. He deserved to know who he was and to find his people, those who could guide him through what was to come.
I would help him however I could. Yet he needed more than me. He needed those who understood the beast and the man alike.
The time had come.
"Father, I'm going out with Jason," Raymond called. "I'll see you later."
"Be back before nightfall," I warned. "And no sneaking out once you return."
He laughed. "I've never sneaked out, Father. I'll see you later. Don't overwork yourself, if anything needs doing, wait for me."
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. "Sometimes I wonder which of us is the father."
I watched him walk away, his broad back disappearing down the path until he was lost to sight.
Pride swelled in my chest, bittersweet and aching.
I swore in my heart whatever storms lay ahead, whatever truths would soon unfold. I will always be there for him.