DREADED WOLF PRINCE

The train to Blackmoor was nearly empty. Just Evelyn Hart, a thermos of coffee gone cold, and the fog pressing thick against the window like a living thing trying to peer in. She had chosen Blackmoor for its silence. A town forgotten by time, tucked between moors and myths, where no tourist dared stay long—except the strange ones. Like her. But Evelyn wasn’t running from heartbreak or chasing ghost stories like most eccentrics who came through. She was here on instinct. A pull in her chest she couldn’t name. Something in her gut whispered, Blackmoor will change everything. And it did. It started on her second morning, just after the snowfall. The forest behind the inn was heavy with ice, its trees tall and watchful like old gods. Evelyn had wandered deeper than she meant to, chasing a strange sound—almost like a growl. Or a howl. Or a voice. She found it near the riverbend. A massive, lifeless wolf, its fur dark as midnight, blood soaking into the snow beneath it. Evelyn froze. Her breath caught. The wolf’s belly was torn open… not by a predator. No, this was surgical, deliberate. There was no sign of struggle—just the body of a pregnant wolf, and something glinting in the torn flesh. A book. Wrapped in wax and twine, stained with old blood. Evelyn’s gloved hands trembled as she pulled it out. The moment she touched it, the wind stopped. The forest silenced. And far, far away, something howled. The wax cracked under her fingers, and the old cover revealed its title: “The Prophecy of the Forgotten Prince” She blinked. This was madness. She should run. Call the police. Burn the thing. But Evelyn couldn’t move. The page turned on its own, like a breath from another world, and she read: “When blood is lost, and the throne lies empty… The child of fang and fire shall rise. Hidden in the jaws of death, Raised in the forest’s heart— The Dreaded Wolf Prince shall return.” Then the forest howled again. But this time… it wasn’t just one wolf. It was many. And they were coming. Evelyn stumbled backward, nearly losing her footing as her boot slipped on the icy ground. Her breath came in quick, visible puffs, fogging the air as she stared at the ancient book cradled in her hands. The pages fluttered slightly, moved not by the wind, but as she dared to believe by something older. Something watching. She looked down again at the dead wolf, its eyes still open, still glinting with a strange, glassy sorrow. The snow beneath it was no longer pure white; it had turned a bruised red, the color of old wounds and forgotten battles. A cold wind slithered through the trees, brushing against her neck like invisible fingers. She snapped her head around. Nothing. Just the forest. Quiet. Too quiet. Her hands trembled as she closed the book and shoved it into her backpack. She didn’t know why she took it. It felt wrong to leave it. Like it was meant to be found. By her. The wolves howled again closer this time. It was no ordinary sound. There was a rhythm to it, almost like a song, or a ritual. The chorus echoed through the trees, vibrating through her chest. Evelyn had heard wolves before in documentaries, online clips, even on her past travels but never like this. These weren’t the calls of wild animals. These were voices. She turned and ran. Branches tore at her coat, snapping underfoot as she raced through the thick underbrush, ignoring the sting of cold on her cheeks. Her thoughts scrambled like panicked birds. She couldn’t stop picturing that wolf. The way it lay still, almost like it had been offering the book to her. Like it knew her. It was insane. No, worse it was terrifying. She burst through the trees and onto the narrow path that led back to the inn. The sun had slipped behind the clouds, casting a dull gray light over the village rooftops below. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. The world looked so normal from here. Peaceful. As if the forest hadn’t just tried to whisper ancient secrets into her ear. By the time she reached the inn, her lungs were burning. She slammed the door behind her, causing Mrs. Granger, the innkeeper, to nearly drop the tea tray she was carrying. “Good heavens, Miss Hart,” the elderly woman gasped. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Evelyn forced a smile, her lips numb from the cold. “I think… I saw something in the woods.” Mrs. Granger set the tray down slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Was it… an animal?” Evelyn hesitated. Something about the way the woman asked made her pause. It wasn’t casual curiosity it was caution. Fear, even. “Yes,” she said finally. “A wolf.” The innkeeper paled. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the teapot. “You’d best stay out of those woods, dear. They’re not safe this time of year.” Evelyn moved toward the fireplace, shrugging off her coat and letting the warmth melt the frost in her bones. “I thought wolves didn’t come near towns like this.” Mrs. Granger didn’t respond right away. She poured the tea slowly, deliberately. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower. “They don’t. Not usually.” Evelyn turned. “But they have before?” The older woman nodded, almost imperceptibly. “There’s… stories. Old ones. The kind tourists laugh at, until they’re not laughing anymore.” Evelyn sat down, her fingers itching to pull the book from her bag. “What kind of stories?” Mrs. Granger gave her a long, unreadable look. Then she sighed, as though weighing something heavy on her chest. “My grandmother used to say this land wasn’t always ours. That before Blackmoor became a village, it was sacred ground. Forest territory. Not just to animals… but to something more. Creatures that walked like men, but howled like wolves.” Evelyn’s heart skipped. She leaned forward. “You mean werewolves?” Mrs. Granger chuckled, but it was hollow. “No, dear. Not monsters. Something else. Protectors. Keepers of the old ways. Until the royals came.” “The royals?” The woman nodded. “Blackmoor was once a stronghold for a noble family. The House of Elden. They ruled the land, respected the forest. Until the war came. The entire bloodline was wiped out in one night. Or so they say.” Evelyn’s blood ran cold. The child of fang and fire shall rise. “What happened to them?” she asked. Mrs. Granger sipped her tea, eyes distant. “Slaughtered. Burned alive in the manor on the hill. Only the heir—just a baby then—was never found. Some say the wolves took him. Others say the forest did. Either way… the prince was never seen again.” A silence fell between them. The fire cracked and hissed, as if in response. Then Evelyn spoke, barely a whisper. “What if he’s still alive?” Mrs. Granger looked up sharply, something dark flickering in her eyes. “Then God help us all.