chapter1:twilight
1100 Words
Dead, dried blood clung to the werewolf’s back as he hurled himself onward, occasionally stopping to sniff the air for any remnants of food. A gruelling, almost monstrous wolf trudged through a wasteland of dead trees and dried riverbeds a once lush paradise now long forgotten. Beaten, battered, bruised, and scarred, the lone wolf wandered the wilderness on hind legs, scavenging for scraps of meat or the next unfortunate soul to cross his path.
The starving werewolf was in shambles as he neared the edge of a mountain. He sniffed the air, seeking the scent of carrion or, if fortune dared smile, a living, breathing being to feed on. He hauled his body up the mountain trail, veering dangerously close to the edges, his meat shell a burdensome husk along the narrow path. Finally, after what felt like moons upon moons of searching, he stumbled upon a cave. Not particularly rugged, nor smooth underfoot, it was just right spacious enough for a pack.
He hobbled inside, past the mouth of the cave, ready to collapse. Just as his body began to rest and his lids began to close, a distant howl pierced the quiet. What are wolves howling about at this hour? he thought, exhausted. Ignoring the calls, he curled into a ball, letting his tension melt away.
But peace was fleeting.
No sooner had he drifted off than his ears twitched and his eyes shot open. Something or someone was outside. He waited, breath caught in his throat. No one appeared. With a groan, he lifted his frame onto trembling hind legs and limped toward the entrance. As he rounded the edge of the stone wall, he froze.
Wolves.
Not ragged like him but clean, youthful, energetic. Their fur glistened, their eyes sharp. They sniffed around as though searching for something but not him. And they didn’t seem the least bit alarmed by his presence.
The werewolf narrowed his eyes, unsure whether to retreat or confront. The wolves continued their circling, their noses twitching as they drew in the air like bloodhounds. One of them a silver coated alpha looking male paused and locked eyes with the werewolf. There was no growl, no bark, no indication of fear or aggression. Only stillness. A knowing quiet passed between them.
Then, the silver wolf tilted its head toward the forest below, as though inviting him to follow.
The werewolf did not move. His limbs ached, and suspicion curled like smoke in his mind. He had seen too much to trust easy gestures. Still, something stirred in his chest an old feeling, older than hunger. Curiosity.
The wolves turned away as a group and loped off, vanishing between the pines like spirits. He stood there, staring into the gap they’d disappeared through, heart thudding. Were they real? he wondered. Or some lingering echo of a past he no longer remembered?
Night deepened. Clouds covered the sky. And though his body screamed for rest, something within would not let him return to sleep.
The werewolf followed.
Each step down the mountain was a test his bones scraped against themselves, skin clung barely to his form. But he pushed on, driven by the scent they left behind. Wild. Clean. Alive.
Hours passed. Or maybe more.
Eventually, he emerged into a strange grove. The trees here were alive green, twisting things with roots that pulsed faintly beneath the soil. The air smelled different too. Less decay, more...magic.
And there, in the heart of it all, stood the wolves.
They circled a pool of water so clear it shimmered like glass. The silver wolf sat beside it, and looked up as he approached.
Then it spoke not with words, but with thought.
"You've walked the wastelands too long, brother. It's time to remember."
The werewolf staggered, clutching at his head. Visions slammed into him flashes of a kingdom, a moonlit hunt, laughter, blood oaths. He saw himself not the broken creature he’d become, but tall, regal, wild with power.
And then
The forest trembled.
Something ancient stirred beneath the roots.
Something that had been waiting.
The ground beneath the grove pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A deep, primeval throb, like the heartbeat of a slumbering god.
The werewolf still hunched, trembling from the visions staggered backward. The silver wolf didn’t flinch. The others stood like statues around the shimmering pool, their eyes glowing faintly now, reflecting not just moonlight but something older, something buried in time.
Then the earth cracked open.
Not with violence, but with reverence like a coffin unlocking itself.
From beneath the roots, black tendrils rose not made of flesh or shadow, but memory. They slithered like smoke across the ground, curling up the werewolf’s limbs, tracing the scars carved into his battered form. And as they touched him, he remembered.
The pact.
The blood moon.
The betrayal.
He had not always been a starving beast wandering the dead lands. He had once stood as Valek, High Fang of the Eclipse Court guardian of the old laws and voice of the lunar flame. The cave he had found was no accident. The wolves, no coincidence. And the grove this sacred place was the burial site of the first werewolves, the place where the wild was born and where all must return.
The silver wolf stepped forward again, and this time, when he looked into Valek’s eyes, there was recognition.
"The Nightborne Throne is vacant." The thought came again, clearer now. "And the blood rite begins soon."
Valek’s body buckled beneath the weight of truth. His fall from power hadn’t been fate it had been sabotage. The young princes of the court, desperate for immortality, had cursed him with madness and exile, severing his mind from his form, leaving him to rot in the wilderness. But they had failed to destroy his essence.
And now, the blood moon was rising again.
The rite of return was at hand.
All that was required…
Was blood.
The silver wolf’s form shimmered suddenly. Bones cracked, fur receded, and in its place stood a tall, pale figure cloaked in wolfskin robes. Eyes the color of ash. Fingertips stained crimson. A Mooncaller, one of the last keepers of the old rites.
He held out a hand to Valek.
"Choose, exile. Reclaim what was stolen… or remain a beast beneath broken stars."
Valek stared at the outstretched hand. His claws twitched. The smoke-memories still danced around him, whispering truths and names he had long buried.
A slow, guttural growl began to rise from his throat not one of defiance, but of awakening.
He took the hand.
And the forest howled in answer.
- Writer
