bloodlines of the treaty

I was born under a blood moon—the kind that bleeds red across the sky. Some say it’s a sign of greatness. Others call it a curse. Either way, I didn’t get a choice. I am Matheo, Alpha of the Altiplano wolf pack, the largest and most organized of the eight werewolf clans in ancient Colombia. My grandfather, Leocardio, was a legend. He forged the Sacred Treaty—the agreement that brought peace to a world once soaked in blood. Before the Treaty, chaos ruled. Werewolves hunted by day, vampires by night, and humans were the prey caught in between. War between our kinds nearly destroyed everything. But my grandfather had a vision—a world where we could coexist. He united the fiercest of enemies. Drakula, the cold and cunning king of the vampires. Miguel Angelo, leader of the last human kingdom. Together, they signed the Treaty. Under the Sacred Treaty, humans donated blood to vampires in controlled rituals—no more surprise attacks, no more turning the innocent. Werewolves became guardians of the land, protecting all creatures, not just our own. In return, humans stopped making silver weapons and respected our ancient territories. It wasn’t perfect. But it worked—for a while. Now, decades later, I carry the weight of that peace on my shoulders. The wind whistled as we ascended the mountain trail to the Summit of Stones. This was sacred ground—the meeting place of the three leaders, carved from jagged rock and bathed in moonlight. I led our group in silence, my Beta Renzo walking just behind me. His steps were sure, but his heart was restless. “You’re quiet,” he said. “There’s tension in the air,” I replied. “The kind that warns of change.” He nodded. “I feel it too.” When we reached the Summit, I saw them waiting. Drakula stood at the northern stone, his black cloak still as death, eyes glowing faintly red beneath his hood. King Miguel stood to the south, robed in gold, his silver beard falling to his chest. Age had touched him, but not dulled his pride. I took my place at the eastern stone. The circle was now complete. A human priest stepped into the center, holding the aged scroll. The Sacred Treaty, written in three scripts—Wolf, Vampire, and Human. One by one, we made the oath. “I, Matheo of the Altiplano Pack, Alpha by birth, grandson of Leocardio, swear to protect the balance, to uphold peace, and to defend the Sacred Treaty with my life.” “I, Drakula of the Night Court,” the vampire leader said, “swear to honor the pact, to feed only by consent, and to reign without cruelty.” “I, Miguel Angelo, sovereign of the Human Alliance,” the king declared, “swear to maintain our offering, to never raise arms in hate, and to protect this harmony.” Three voices. Three drops of blood on the stone altar. The peace was renewed. But peace is not the same as trust. Inside the summit hall—an old cavern with stone benches and a glowing fire pit—we met without guards or weapons. King Miguel was the first to speak. “My people are uneasy,” he said. “There are rumors. Missing villagers along the northern border. Bloodless corpses. You understand what that means.” Drakula’s lips curled. “I have not authorized any hunts. None of my own would disobey me.” “And yet the whispers grow,” Miguel replied. I stepped in. “Perhaps it is a rogue vampire—turned in secret, without your knowledge.” “Impossible,” Drakula hissed, though I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. “And what of the humans training with silver again?” he snapped. “Your soldiers practice war, not peace.” Miguel’s face darkened. “We prepare only in case the Treaty fails. We’ve seen the price of being unprepared.” “And if it fails,” I said slowly, “we all lose.” A heavy silence filled the room. The fire crackled as if echoing our thoughts. Drakula turned his gaze to me. “Your wolves have always kept order among your kind. But recently… there are whispers of rebellion among the packs. Discontent.” He wasn’t wrong. Even within the Altiplano, tensions stirred. “I will look into it,” I said. “And if there are threats, I will silence them.” Miguel raised his goblet. “To peace, then—for as long as it lasts.” We drank. But it tasted like dust. Later that night, I stood alone at the edge of the cliff, staring down into the valley. The moon bathed the forest in silver. Somewhere below, wolves howled. The sound should have comforted me. It didn’t. Renzo approached, his presence quiet but sharp. “You handled it well,” he said. “Too well,” I replied. “Drakula hides something. And Miguel is scared.” “Weakness invites blood.” I turned to him. “Do you believe in the Treaty, Renzo?” He hesitated. “I believe in our strength. I believe in our right to rule. But this… alliance? It feels like a chain around our necks.” There it was. The seed of rebellion. “You sound like Damian of the Pijao pack,” I said. “He would burn the Treaty and raise our banners over every kingdom.” “He’s not wrong,” Renzo muttered. “He is,” I said firmly. “The Treaty protects all of us. It is the only thing standing between order and chaos.” Renzo didn’t answer. He just stared into the night. As I returned to my chambers in the summit lodge, I thought of my grandfather—Leocardio, the peacemaker. The visionary. He united what others said was impossible. Now it was my turn. But shadows were growing. In the mountains, whispers stirred among the wolf packs. In the cities, fear haunted the humans. In the forests, something darker moved beneath the surface. I didn’t know it then, but the balance we fought so hard to keep was already crumbling. And soon, the blood moon would rise again.