Marcus stood his ground, his massive werewolf form tensed but not aggressive. Not attacking. His voice came out pleading, desperate in a way that made John's chest ache.
"Loki...Brother. Please. Leave them alone. They have nothing to do with our past. They're innocent. Just leave. I'm begging you."
The Wolf God, Loki apparently, tilted his head. Considering. Then his lip curled.
He dropped one of his massive swords. It hit the ground with a crash that shook the earth. Then his free hand moved faster than John could track.
The punch connected with Marcus's jaw with the sound of thunder.
Marcus's head snapped to the side. Blood sprayed from his muzzle. A gash opened across his cheek, deep enough that John could see bone. The werewolf staggered but didn't fall.
"I challenge you," Loki said, his voice formal now. Ritualistic. "Blood Snout Butcher. I challenge you to a duel. Here. Now. Fight me as you once did. Show me you're still worthy of the name."
Marcus's head hung low. Blood dripped from his wound onto the destroyed ground. "That's not my name anymore. I'm Marcus now. Just Marcus."
Loki's laughter was volcanic. It rolled across the clearing, shaking what remained of the cabin's walls.
"MARCUS?!" He could barely get the word out through his mirth. "Oh. Oh, this is beautiful. This is perfect. You took his name. You actually took his name."
"Stop." Marcus's voice was quiet.
"The father who challenged you to a duel to protect his children. You remember him, don't you? Simple farmer. No training. Just desperation and love. And you tore him apart in seconds. Left his children orphans. Left his wife a widow."
"I said stop."
"And you felt so guilty. So consumed by remorse that you decided to play make believe. Take his name. Build his life. Pretend you could replace what you destroyed." Loki's voice dripped with contempt. "Taking on the name of the man you killed. Truly. Disgraceful."
Another punch. This one to Marcus's ribs. John heard something crack. Marcus doubled over, gasping.
He still didn't fight back.
John watched from the rubble, his mind reeling. Marcus had killed someone. A father. Had taken his name, his life, tried to recreate what he'd destroyed. The kind stranger who'd saved John was built on a foundation of murder and guilt.
Behind him, one of the children, the eight year old girl, tugged on Martha's sleeve.
"Mama?" Her voice was tiny. Scared. "Did Papa kill people?"
Martha's face was pale, pain etched in every line. But her voice stayed steady. Mom voice. "Sweetheart, we need to focus on getting out of here. Can you move your leg?"
"Mama, did he—"
"Not now. Please." Martha tried to shift, to push herself up. Then screamed. Her leg was pinned under a massive beam. The angle was wrong. John could see even from here that it was broken.
The other children were trapped too. Not as badly, but stuck under debris that they were too small and weak to move.
They weren't getting out. Not without help.
Marcus straightened slowly, blood streaming down his fur. His eyes found his family in the rubble. Found John trying to shield them. Found his children's terrified faces.
"If I accept this duel," Marcus said, his voice steady despite the pain, "will you leave my family alone? Will you let them live?"
Loki picked up his dropped sword. Both blades crossed now, ready. "This is a battle to the death, brother. Ancient rules. Winner takes all. Loser takes nothing."
"That's not an answer."
"Fine. Yes. If you fight me properly, with everything you have, I'll leave them alone. Win or lose. You have my word as a god."
Marcus's shoulders sagged. Relief maybe. Or resignation.
"I accept."
Loki's grin was feral. "Finally. Some—"
The punch came before he finished speaking. Loki's fist buried itself in Marcus's stomach, doubling him over again. Then an uppercut that lifted the nine foot werewolf off his feet and sent him flying backward.
Marcus hit the ground hard, rolled, tried to get up.
Loki was already in the air. Jumping impossibly high for something so massive. Both swords held over his head, joined into a hammer formation.
The impact created a crater. Actual crater. The earth buckled and cracked, a shockwave radiating outward. Marcus was at the center, driven into the ground by divine strength.
But he wasn't done. His claws dug into the earth and he launched himself forward, tackling Loki around the waist. They rolled together, massive bodies tearing up the ground.
Marcus didn't attack though. Even now, pinning his brother, he didn't use his claws. Didn't bite. Didn't strike.
"LOKI!" Marcus's voice was raw. "BROTHER! PLEASE! I NEED MY FAMILY! I NEED THEM!"
"THEN FIGHT FOR THEM WITH YOUR BLOOD!" Loki roared back.
His legs kicked out, catching Marcus in the chest. The werewolf flew backward, hit the ground in a crouch. Tried to stand.
Loki was faster. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, and as Marcus rose to his knees, the god's fist connected with his face.
The sound was apocalyptic. Marcus became a projectile, rocketing backward through the tree line. Trees exploded as his body tore through them. The sound of splintering wood echoed for seconds.
Silence fell.
Then Kalvin's voice, young and cracking with terror and rage.
"DAD!"
John turned. Kalvin was moving. Not trapped anymore. But something was wrong. Something was changing.
The twelve year old boy who'd made fun of John's appearance, who'd been cocky and clever, was growing.
Not gradually. Rapidly. His bones lengthening, muscles expanding. Four foot six became five feet. Then five and a half. Then six feet tall, still growing, still changing.
His face elongated. Fur sprouted across his skin. Claws emerged from his fingertips.
"Don't..." The voice was deeper now. Bestial. But still Kalvin underneath. "DON'T TOUCH MY PAPA!"
The transformation finished. Six feet of adolescent werewolf rage. Not as large as Marcus or Loki. Still young, still developing. But transformed nonetheless.
He dropped to all fours and charged.
Loki watched him come. Didn't move. Just watched with that same analytical interest Saunder had shown when studying John's delusions.
"The little one has some guts," Loki said, his tone almost appreciative. "I'll give you that."
His sword moved in a blur.
The slash caught Kalvin across the throat. A massive gash opened from ear to ear. Blood sprayed in an arc.
Kalvin's momentum carried him forward two more steps. Then his legs gave out. He collapsed face first into the dirt, his transformed body reverting partially, shrinking back toward human as shock and blood loss took him.
"KALVIN!" Multiple voices screaming at once. Martha. The other children. John.
From the tree line, Marcus emerged. Limping. Half his face was shredded. One arm hung at a wrong angle. But he was moving. Coming back.
"Kal..." The word came out as a whisper. Broken. Devastated.
Loki bent down and grabbed Kalvin's head. Lifted the barely conscious boy by his skull like he weighed nothing. Kalvin's feet dangled, blood still pouring from his throat.
"Your boy fights like a newborn," Loki said conversationally. "Pathetic. All instinct, no training. No control. Just blind rage." He studied Kalvin with detached interest. "He has your blood though. Given time, given proper guidance, he might have been something. Might have been worthy."
"Put him down." Marcus's voice was hollow. Empty of everything except a single demand. "Put. Him. Down."
"As you wish, brother."
Loki threw Kalvin's body aside. Casual. Like discarding garbage.
Kalvin hit the ground near the ruins and didn't move. The massive gash across his throat leaked steadily. Too much blood. Way too much blood for someone to survive.
Martha's screams turned incoherent. The other children were crying, trying to reach their brother, still trapped under rubble.
John stared at Kalvin's body. At the twelve year old kid who'd made fun of him a week ago. Who'd called him big bro. Who'd just tried to save his father and died for it.
This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't how stories worked. The kids were supposed to be safe. The family was supposed to survive. That's how these arcs went.
But Kalvin was dying. Maybe already dead.
And Marcus, the Blood Snout Butcher who'd tried to escape his past by playing house, stood broken in the clearing while his brother prepared to finish what he'd started.