The air was heavy with dew and foreboding as Kael stirred from restless dreams. The glade, once glowing with ethereal moonlight, had dimmed, shadows stretching farther than they should. The ancient altar before him no longer pulsed—it waited.
The wolf was gone.
Only claw marks on the stone, curved and deep, remained as a silent witness to what had occurred the night before.
Kael rose, his body still humming with latent energy. His fingertips tingled as if brushing the veil between worlds. He had touched something sacred—something forbidden—and it had changed him. But how? And why?
"Kael," a soft voice called from the treeline.
He turned sharply. From the mist emerged a figure cloaked in weathered robes, bound in woven silver threads and adorned with bone-carved glyphs. The stranger's eyes gleamed amber in the dawn light—old, yet alert.
"I am Saerith. Lorekeeper of the Greyhowl Circle."
Kael took a cautious step back. "You were watching me."
"Not watching. Waiting." Saerith tilted his head. "You heard the Howl. You touched the altar. You've awakened something far older than blood."
Kael's throat tightened. "What am I?"
Saerith's smile was neither kind nor cruel. It was knowing.
"Come. You must see the Cradle of Memory. Only then will you understand."
🪐 Deep in the Earth — The Cradle of Memory
They journeyed beneath the roots of the forest, through tunnels woven from stone and root. Saerith's staff glowed faintly, revealing murals painted in blood-red pigment, depicting beasts that once walked among gods, and men who howled beneath two moons.
In the heart of the chamber stood a great obsidian mirror, taller than any man and rimmed with wolf teeth.
"This is where your lineage is written—not in words, but in echoes."
Saerith placed his palm upon the mirror.
Visions burst forth—Kael saw snarling wolves made of starlight, a line of warriors cloaked in fur and shadow, blood spilled in ancient wars, and a child—a boy with silver eyes—marked with a crescent scar.
Kael gasped. He recognized the child. It was him.
"Your blood comes from the Moonbound," Saerith said. "Not mere werewolves, but guardians—chosen to defend the balance between wild and corrupted, between instinct and decay."
"Then why did my family hide this from me?"
"Because the Moonbound were hunted. Feared. The Great Culling drove them into extinction... or so the world believes."
Kael's heart thundered. "And now?"
Saerith turned solemn. "Now, the corruption returns. It spreads faster than before. You must lead the Pack, Kael. Or the forest will fall into ruin."
🌫 Meanwhile — The Edge of the Corrupted Zone
Far to the north, where light no longer pierced the canopy, the Pack—led by Lyra and Brann—moved silently through the rotted terrain.
"Smell that?" Brann whispered. "Burnt sap and… ash."
"It's feeding," Lyra replied. Her hackles rose. "The Blight is growing bolder."
From beneath the blackened earth, a low rumble echoed.
And then it emerged—a creature twisted beyond recognition. Once a stag, now a monstrous amalgamation of bone, rot, and bile. Its antlers dripped with ichor, and its eyes were hollow voids.
The Pack formed a circle, teeth bared and tails stiff.
It charged.
🔥 Destiny Collides
As Kael returned from the Cradle, the forest shuddered. A ripple of corruption pulsed through the roots beneath his feet.
He dropped to one knee, clutching his chest—he could feel them. The Pack. In danger.
"Go," Saerith said firmly. "Your blood remembers. Let it guide you."
Kael didn't hesitate.
With a snarl of instinct, he ran—faster than before, wind howling in his ears, his body no longer human but not yet wolf.
He ran toward the battle. Toward the Pack. Toward destiny.