Rise of the Underdogs: VALIK

III

I heard the wolf following me before I got three kilometers from the cabin. The sound was low—paws brushing dry leaves, breath hitting the air in short bursts—but what caught me off guard was the scent. Wet earth, copper, something wild and old. I shouldn’t have known how to scent anything, not yet. But I did.

The instinct hit hard, like my blood suddenly remembered something my mind couldn’t explain. My legs burned with the effort, muscles screaming at each uneven step as I pushed deeper into the woods. Brambles snagged my arms, tearing into the sleeves of my thin hoodie. Low brush clawed at my shins, mud sucking at my boots like the forest itself wanted to keep me.

I ducked under a branch that nearly split my face, its bark scratched with claw marks that looked fresh. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I veered left, then right, doubling back, carving messy paths through trees so tall they blocked out the moonlight. I wanted to stay unpredictable. Wanted to disappear.

Then, out of nowhere, a clearing opened up—wide and quiet. Relief hit for half a second, just enough to make me slow down.

That’s when I realized it wasn’t a clearing.

It was a cliff.

The edge dropped into jagged rock and black ocean far below, waves thrashing like they were angry at the moon. Wind slammed against my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs, the scent of salt and storm thick in the air.

Behind me, a chuff broke the silence.

Low. Confident. Close.

My heart slammed into my ribs. My breath stuttered. The Werewolf hunting me was just behind the treeline now. I had minutes—maybe less—before my life ended. Unless fate, for once, stopped watching and started doing something.

I looked down at the waves, then back into the trees. I didn’t know what was coming. I just knew I wasn’t ready to die.

Then I saw it, a wolf that shouldn’t exist in the north.

The Mexican Red wolf stood just beyond the line of trees, fur glowing like embers in the dying light. Its coat was a patchwork of deep russet, muted gray, and creamy white, every strand moving with the wind like smoke across flame. Not bulky like northern wolves—this one was lean, built for speed and stealth, its frame compact but powerful. The narrow muzzle twitched as it tasted the air, ears pivoting with sharp focus, tail held low but firm.

Its grey-blue eyes locked onto me with eerie steadiness—alert, but not hostile. Like it had been watching for a while, tracking my panicked flight from just beyond the noise. The stare wasn’t wild. It was deliberate. Intelligent. Almost familiar.

A snarl never came. No low growl. Just silence, charged and waiting.

Then I saw it.

A wolf that shouldn’t exist in the north. A Mexican Red wolf.

It stepped from the shadows like it had been waiting for me—fur the color of rusted flame, streaked with smoky grey and bone white along its chest. Smaller than the massive mountain breeds I’d seen trailing Austin’s pack, but this one carried a different kind of weight. Not brute force… precision. It moved like a ghost trained for war. The eyes locked onto mine—sharp, flicking across my face like they were reading every scar, every tremble. I didn’t know how I sensed it, but I did. This wolf wasn’t wild. It was awake.

Without giving the new wolf away to the one hunting me, I turned slowly, trying to mask the panic bubbling up in my throat. My hand lifted, shaking but steady enough to buy me seconds. “N-nice wolf,” I said, voice barely above the wind. “You don’t want to do this.”

The Rogue didn’t hesitate. Snarling low, lips curled over jagged yellow teeth, he lunged.

But the Mexican Red didn’t flinch. With a blur of red and grey, it shot forward. The impact was brutal—fur and muscle colliding in a crack of bone and snarled fury. The Red tore into the Rogue with silent speed, claws raking, jaws locking onto the soft part of the throat. It wasn’t a fight. It was a purge.

My distraction had been enough. All he’d been waiting for.

The snap that followed made my stomach turn. It wasn’t just the sound of bones—it was the sound of finality. Of something ending. I watched the Rogue’s eyes fade, their light gone as his body crumpled to the leaves.

The Mexican Red stepped back slowly, blood staining the fur around its muzzle but not dripping. It sat, calm, measured, just a few paces from where I’d collapsed against the dirt, too shaken to breathe right.

I lifted my hand again—not in defense this time, but in silent thanks. My fingers trembled, cold and smeared with earth. I tried not to flinch as he nudged my fingers, letting me pet him. Sinking my hands into his fur, I hugged the wolf who had saved me.

Then another problem rose up. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—crashed through the underbrush behind us. I turned, heart slamming against my ribs.

Out of the forest’s throat came a man. Tall, broad, and wrapped in an aura that felt like winter had learned to walk. The Werewolf King.

Neil Dane.

His coat shifted around him like it held secrets, dark eyes landing on me with a weight that made my spine lock up. His gaze shifted to the wolf as he tossed a bag at it.

Silently moving into the shadows, the wolf shifted into a teenager barely older than myself… with red hair and grey-blue eyes. That was when the truth struck with a clarity I wasn’t expecting.

I’d been saved by my older brother.