Stepping inside the cottage, the warmth from the roaring fireplace instantly chased away the forest chill.
Rod subtly scanned the interior.
A sofa. A bed. A rough-hewn table. A few stools. A partition separating the living area from what assumedly was a bedroom.
The furnishings were spartan.
"Drink some water. It'll warm you up."
The old woman ushered him to a seat with aggressive hospitality, then bustled into the back room. She returned a moment later with a steaming mug.
Rod frowned, his internal alarms ringing.
A stranger in the middle of a monster-infested forest, offering drinks to a random man who showed up at her door?
Something was off.
Werewolves were prowling less than a mile away, yet this old woman lived here alone, unbothered?
The whole setup reeked.
Rod accepted the mug but placed it firmly on the table without taking a sip.
"Is there a village nearby?"
Seeing Rod refuse the drink, the grandmother's smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"It's late. Everyone in town will be asleep by now. Why don't you rest here for the night?"
Rest here?
Rod's lip curled slightly. He glanced around the single-room shack.
There was one bed. Unless she planned on sleeping on the floor, the logistics didn't add up.
"I think I'll pass."
Rod declined firmly.
Seeing he had no intention of staying, the old woman's expression shifted to one of resigned disappointment.
She pointed a bony finger toward the door.
"Go straight down that path. You'll see the village soon enough."
"But be careful. There are dangerous beasts in these woods. I still suggest you wait until dawn."
Beasts?
What beast could be more dangerous than the werewolf he had just dismantled? Or the suspicious old woman trying to drug him?
"I'll take my chances."
Rod thanked her perfunctorily and walked out into the night.
The old woman stood in the doorway, watching his silhouette dissolve into the darkness. Her amber eyes narrowed.
"Clever boy."
...
Twenty minutes later.
A cluster of lights pierced the gloom.
As Rod approached the settlement, his expression grew perplexed.
It wasn't just a village; it was a fortress.
A thick, formidable wall encircled the town. Every few meters, a torch blazed against the night, creating a ring of fire that pushed back the encroaching dark.
It looked less like a town and more like a quarantine zone.
"Who goes there!"
Rod had barely stepped out of the tree line when a shout rang out from the ramparts.
A squad of militia on patrol peered down, their eyes wide with fear and tension.
"Relax. I'm just a traveler passing through."
Rod walked into the light, hands visible, voice calm.
"A traveler?"
Seeing it was just a human, the militia visibly relaxed. But their suspicion returned almost immediately.
"How did you cross the forest at this hour?"
"I walked," Rod replied, as if stating the obvious.
The militiamen exchanged nervous glances.
"You walked? And you didn't encounter... anything strange?" the squad leader asked, his voice lowered.
"You mean the hairy monsters that turn into wolves?" Rod shrugged. "Ran into one. Killed it."
He decided honesty was the best policy.
Werewolves and humans were clearly at war here. Claiming a kill—even if it sounded impossible—would establish him as an ally, or at least someone worth respecting.
"Killed it?"
The militia stared at him as if he had just claimed to be the Tooth Fairy.
These men had lived in the shadow of the lycans their entire lives. They knew the terror. Even with fire and silver, it took a squad of ten experienced hunters to corner a single werewolf, and half of them wouldn't come back.
And this unarmed stranger claimed he killed one solo?
Bullshit.
Just as they were about to dismiss him as a liar, a blood-curdling howl tore through the night air.
"AWOOOO!"
The militia froze.
"It's a werewolf! Open the gate! Get inside!"
"Ring the bell! We're under attack!"
Panic erupted on the wall. But before they could even scramble into position, the underbrush exploded.
A massive, hulking shape burst from the treeline.
Red eyes burning with hunger. Fangs dripping with saliva.
"This one isn't afraid of the fire!"
"It's starving! It's gone feral! Prepare to engage!"
"Stranger! Run! Get to the wall!"
The militia leveled their muskets and pitchforks with trembling hands. They were ready to die to hold the line. If this beast got into the village, it would be a slaughter.
But then, the squad leader saw something that made his brain short-circuit.
The strange traveler wasn't running toward the gate.
He was walking toward the werewolf.
Is he suicidal?
The militia watched in horror as the beast lunged. They flinched, expecting to see the young man's head ripped from his shoulders.
Thud.
A dull, heavy impact shook the ground.
The werewolf, a seven-foot tower of muscle and rage, lunged—and was stopped cold.
One hand.
Rod had caught the beast by the face and slammed it into the dirt with the casual ease of a man swatting a fly.
The werewolf, dwarfing Rod in size, thrashed and clawed, but it was pinned.
Rod looked down at the snarling monster, his expression bored.
From beneath his trench coat, he produced a sawed-off shotgun.
He pressed the cold steel barrel against the werewolf's forehead, tracing a slow sign of the cross.
"May God have mercy on your soul. Amen."