Heir of The Werewolf Blood

Chapter 7 The Truth Begins to Emerge

"If you want to keep breathing tomorrow morning, listen closely, Harry. This city doesn't forgive creatures like you."

Harry didn't reply.

Arthur pulled his arm tighter, nearly dragging him out of the alley's shadows. His face was deathly pale as he peeked outside, making sure the two large men were actually gone.

The city's sounds returned horns, footsteps, unfamiliar conversations as if what had just happened was merely a brief illusion. For Harry, however, the world had not returned to normal.

His wolf instinct was still wired, like a muscle refusing to relax after the hunt. He followed Arthur's gaze, scenting the air, searching for any lingering traces of danger.

"They won't come back now," Arthur finally whispered. "But that doesn't mean we're safe."

"Who were they?" Harry asked quietly.

Arthur swallowed. "Thorne's trash." The name slid from Arthur's mouth like poison. "They know someone saw you. And now... now they know you're not just some confused lost kid."

"Thorne?" Harry repeated. The name was unfamiliar, but the way Arthur spoke it made Harry's chest feel heavy. "Who is Thorne?"

Arthur didn't answer right away. He started walking, pulling Harry toward the busy main street. In the crowd, their faces became one of hundreds. Anonymity was safer than the darkness.

"Victor Thorne," Arthur finally said. "He's not just a criminal. He's a ruler. The shadow that moves this city." Harry felt his blood run cold. "You should have stayed in the forest," Arthur continued. "That kind of power... Thorne will hunt you down to the bone."

Harry clenched his fists. The image of the two men sprawled in the alley flashed through his mind. He didn't regret protecting Arthur, but he realized he had opened a door that should have remained closed.

"I won't run anymore," he said firmly. "I've been running too long." Arthur stopped, staring at Harry for a long time. "I have to avenge my family's death," Harry continued, his voice softer, but full of resolve.

Arthur let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temple. "In that case, listen to me. You can't avenge anything without a foothold. You need money. You need a reason to be in this city without looking suspicious."

"A reason?" Harry repeated.

"A job." The word felt strange on Harry's tongue. But Arthur said it casually, as if it were nothing. "The port," Arthur said firmly. "Down there, no one cares who you are as long as you can lift heavy cargo. Your strength will look... ordinary."

Several weeks passed.

Harry’s life shifted into a rhythm of salt air, foreman shouts, and relentless physical labor. The port never truly slept. Ships came and went. Goods were unloaded, lifted, moved.

Harry became part of the machine. He lifted wooden crates whose weight made other laborers curse. His muscles worked without complaint. His body, forged by the forest and survival, adapted quickly.

"You're an alien, Kid," Rick, an old laborer with a weathered face, said one day. "You never get tired." Harry just shrugged. "Good sleep." It was a lie.

He could only sleep if Arthur made sure no one was watching. Arthur often visited during breaks, bringing food and repeating the same warnings: "Don't show off. Hide that necklace. And don't attract the supervisors' attention."

Harry obeyed. But the port taught him one thing: beneath the sweat and shouting, there were whispers. Whispers of unrecorded cargo. Of foreign ships arriving at night. Of the name Thorne, spoken quietly, in fear.

One hot afternoon, Harry was assigned to clean an old cargo hold on a large, newly docked ship. The place was quiet, far from Rick's supervision. He was pulling a sack of chemical powder when his eyes caught something in the corner of the room.

An old tarpaulin. Mildewed. Arranged too neatly for something unimportant. Harry stopped. His wolf instinct stirred. He pushed the tarpaulin aside. He found a newspaper.

Not a small clipping. An entire page, folded and deliberately hidden. Harry knelt, carefully unfolding the fragile paper.

A LARGE PHOTO. A smiling family. Harry's world seemed to stop. The man and woman... he recognized their faces. From dreams. From fragmented memories. Next to the family photo, there was another small portrait. A studio shot. A man in an expensive suit. Around his neck, a silver pendant gleamed. The same pendant.

"Father..." Harry whispered.

The large headline was stark: AUBREY ACCIDENT INVESTIGATION HALTED: POLICE CITE TECHNICAL FAILURE.

Harry read it again. And again. The lie felt obvious. His instinct screamed at him.

"What did you find in there?" Harry jumped. Rick was standing in the cargo doorway. "Nothing," Harry quickly replied, hiding the newspaper. "Damaged cargo." Rick stared at him sharply. "Finish up, quickly."

After Rick left, Harry worked as fast as possible. He had to leave. Now. In his hiding spot, Harry pulled out the necklace. He compared the micro-engraving to the photo. It was the exact same necklace.

This wasn't a keepsake. This was a symbol.

"You know the risks," Harry muttered. He felt a powerful urge to find Arthur. All the pieces were starting to click into place.

But before he could move, footsteps sounded. Heavy and deliberate. Expensive leather shoes. The steps stopped directly in front of his hiding spot.

"I know you're in there," the cold voice said. "You've held onto our property for too long, Aubrey's son." Harry froze. "Give me the necklace," the voice continued, calm and cruel. "Or you'll join your father."

Harry clenched his fists. "What did Thorne tell you," Harry said quietly, his voice hardening, "when he killed my family?"

Silence. Then a small laugh came from the other side. "

You'll find out," the voice replied. "If you live long enough to hear it.”