The forest held its breath. For Elias, it was a language he had learned before he could properly speak—a dialect of snapping twigs, the rustle of unseen things in the undergrowth, and the heavy, expectant silence that preceded a kill. Nineteen years of life had been distilled into this single, moonless night, into the scent of damp earth and the coppery tang of blood that hung in the air like a promise. He moved through the ancient pines not as a man, but as a ghost, a shadow woven from the darkness itself, his body a coiled spring of potential energy. The silver-coated hilt of his dagger was cold and familiar against his palm, an extension of his own will.The tracks had been fresh, depressions in the mud too large for a bear, too deep for a man. They spoke of a weight, a power that set the small community of Havenwood on edge every time the moon grew fat. Lycan. The word itself was a curse, a prayer, and a sacred duty all rolled into one. For Elias, it was simply his purpose. He had

A current, violent and electric, surged through Elias’s body. It was not the jolt of adrenaline he knew, the familiar fire that sharpened his senses before a kill. This was different. This was a seismic upheaval from within, a rebellion of his own cells. The lycan’s words, “They were poisoning you,” were not a thought in his head; they were a physical truth rewriting his DNA. His vision swam, the mossy stones of the ravine blurring into a kaleidoscope of green and grey. He felt a scream building in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated horror, but it was choked off by a spasm that seized his throat.He fell to his knees, his dagger still lying forgotten on the ground. His body was no longer his own, a battlefield where the ghost of his childhood and the monster of his present were locked in a mortal struggle. He could feel the fire the lycan spoke of, a wildfire spreading through his veins, scorching away the lies he had been fed his entire life. Every bitter cup of tea, every cal

The world outside the cabin door was a maelstrom of fear. Thomas’s voice, amplified by panic and the cold night air, was a battering ram against the fragile peace of the home. “The tracks lead right here, Mark! Open up! We know it’s close!”Inside, time seemed to fracture. The warm, fire-lit room, a symbol of safety and family for nineteen years, transformed into a pressure cooker. Every shadow deepened, every crack in the floorboards seemed to whisper a secret. Elias stood frozen, the silver sword feeling less like a weapon and more like a damning piece of evidence. His gaze locked with Mark’s, and in his adoptive father’s eyes, he saw not just fear, but a terrifying, cold calculus. The hunter was assessing the situation, weighing the variables, and the equation did not favor him.“Stay here,” Mark commanded, his voice a low, urgent hiss. He shot a look at Hazel that was both a warning and a plea. “Not a word.”He moved to the door, his body a study in controlled tension. He didn't o

The first footstep was a ghost of a sound, a soft press of leather on damp earth that Elias would have missed an hour ago. Now, it was as loud as a thunderclap in the suffocating silence of the cabin. He froze, the heavy wood-cutting axe held in a white-knuckled grip, every muscle in his body coiled into a spring of pure, terrified energy. They were here. Not just one or two, but a team. He could hear them now, a symphony of predatory sounds: the faint, metallic *shing* of a sword being drawn, the almost inaudible whisper of a command, the subtle shift of weight as they took up their positions around the small, sturdy cabin. They weren't here to talk. They were here to erase a mistake.His hunter's mind, the part of him that was still Mark's student, took over. He ran through the tactical possibilities with cold, brutal efficiency. One door, at the front. One window, at the back, now barred from the outside. They had him cornered. They would expect him to either make a desperate stand