Cursed Fates: Werewolves vs. Hunters

The Alpha's Wrath

The night air was thick with the scent of blood and the tension of an impending storm. Killian stood alone in the middle of the clearing, his eyes glowing amber, his body radiating an unsettling calm. He was the Alpha, the leader of all werewolves, and tonight, the forest was his domain.

Surrounding him were twenty hunters, armed with silver-tipped arrows, daggers, and rifles. They had come to kill him, to end the reign of the most powerful werewolf to ever walk the earth. But they were ignorant. Arrogant. They had no idea what they were up against.

The leader of the hunters, a grizzled man with a scar across his face, raised his hand. “We take him down now! No mercy!”

The hunters nodded, their weapons drawn, eyes trained on the figure before them. But Killian remained still, his stance relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world. He knew they were nothing but prey.

With a sudden, inhuman growl, the hunters rushed at him. The air around them seemed to freeze for a moment, and then, in a blur, Killian was on them.

He moved faster than the human eye could follow. A hunter swung a silver blade at his throat, but Killian ducked effortlessly, his claws slashing across the man’s chest, cutting deep. The hunter fell to the ground with a scream, his body twitching as the silver burned through his flesh.

Two more hunters closed in from either side. Killian turned with a flick of his wrist, his claws slicing through the air with brutal precision. One hunter’s throat was torn open before he could react. The other’s arm was severed clean off, sending him crashing to the ground, screaming in agony.

The remaining hunters hesitated, panic creeping into their faces. They had never seen anything like this. A werewolf was supposed to be a monster, a beast to be feared—but Killian was something more. He was an unstoppable force, a creature of legend.

A hunter fired a silver bullet from his rifle, but Killian was already gone, a blur of motion. The bullet missed by inches as he appeared behind the hunter, his hand gripping the man’s head in an ironclad hold. With a sickening snap, he wrenched the man’s neck, killing him instantly. The body dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

The remaining hunters scattered, trying to regroup, but they were already doomed. Killian’s eyes gleamed with deadly amusement as he stalked through the chaos. They tried to fight back, some with knives, others with crossbows, but it was all futile.

Killian’s speed was unmatched. His strength, immeasurable. Each strike from his claws tore through armor and bone like paper. He spun through the air with agility that defied logic, disarming one hunter with a swift kick to the chest, sending him flying backward into a tree with a sickening c***k.

Another hunter lunged at him with a dagger, but Killian caught his wrist mid-air, squeezing so hard that the bones cracked under his grip. With a snarl, he twisted the man’s arm until it snapped, dropping the dagger to the ground before ripping the man apart with one swift motion.

The remaining hunters, now terrified and broken, tried to flee. But Killian was faster. He was everywhere at once. He tore through them with savage ferocity, each death more violent than the last.

One hunter begged for mercy, dropping to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Please! Please, spare me!” His voice shook with fear.

Killian paused for a moment, his glowing eyes locking onto the pleading man. His lips curled into a cruel smile. “An enemy is an enemy,” he said, his voice cold and filled with finality. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tore the man’s throat out with a single swipe of his claws.

Within minutes, the clearing was silent. The once-proud group of hunters lay scattered and broken, their bodies torn apart with brutal efficiency. Killian stood at the center, covered in blood, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. He was untouchable. Unstoppable.

His pack, hidden in the shadows, watched in awe and fear. They had heard the stories, but to witness it firsthand was something else entirely. This was why Killian was their Alpha. This was why he ruled them all.

As he wiped the blood from his claws, a scout appeared from the edge of the forest. His posture was stiff, and there was no hiding the terror in his eyes. He had come to report, but the fear in his voice was palpable.

“Alpha Killian,” the scout called out, his voice shaking.

Killian’s amber eyes glowed in the dark as he turned to face him, a silent command for the scout to speak.

“There’s more, Alpha. Something... something you need to know.”

The scout hesitated, clearly struggling with the weight of the message. “Over a hundred werewolves... dead. In just a week. Packs are falling, one by one. They... believe it’s the work of one woman.”

“A woman?” Killian’s expression barely changed, but his curiosity piqued. “A woman is responsible for the deaths of over a hundred werewolves?”

“Yes,” the scout continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s not just any hunter, Alpha. She’s different. They say she has a scar—a sword scar—on her back. It’s unmistakable.”

The moment the scout spoke those words, Killian’s pulse quickened. The scar. He had heard of it before. It had been part of the prophecy, something he had grown up with, a mark that was not just a symbol of battle, but of fate itself. The prophecy had foretold of two beings—the most powerful werewolf and the most powerful hunter, destined to cross paths, bound by the same scar.

Killian had carried the mark since his birth—a scar that had never faded, a reminder of the eternal struggle ahead. He had been told the stories as a young wolf, that one day a hunter, marked with the same scar, would rise to challenge him.

He narrowed his eyes, his mind working swiftly to put the pieces together.

“Describe her,” Killian commanded, his voice low, almost a growl.

The scout blinked, startled by the intensity in Killian’s gaze. “She’s... she’s fierce. Cold. Unforgiving. There’s something terrifying about her, but it’s that scar, Alpha. That scar on her back... They say it’s the one from the prophecy—the one that binds the two of you together. A scar from a sword, never healed.”

Killian’s breath hitched in his chest. The prophecy. It had always been there, lurking in the back of his mind, but now, it was no longer a mere story—it was becoming his reality. His chest tightened with the realization. The hunter, the one foretold to challenge him, had arrived.

“Where is she?” Killian’s voice was colder now, dangerous, like the calm before a storm.

The scout swallowed hard. “She’s... she’s not far, Alpha. They say she’s hunting in the forests near the eastern mountains.”

Killian clenched his fists, his claws digging into his palms. His mind was already racing, strategizing, preparing for the inevitable confrontation. There was no escape from destiny. The prophecy had always been clear. He was the Alpha—the most powerful werewolf of this generation, marked by the same scar as the hunter.

But there was no mercy in him for this challenge. She was his enemy, and he would destroy her if it came to that. His only goal was survival. The power in his veins surged with the thought, his werewolf form brimming with energy. His kind had always been at war with humans, and this hunter, marked by the same scar, was the one who would challenge his reign.

As the scout hurried off to rally the pack, Killian stood alone, his mind fixated on the prophecy, on the scar, and on the hunter who would soon be his mortal enemy.

The battle that was foretold had begun.