The fire had long died, but the scent lingered—ash, smoke, and something worse. Death.
Scott Damien stood alone amidst the wreckage of his childhood home. The moon hung low and full above him, casting silver light on the blackened skeleton of what once was. A single howl echoed through the night. Not his. Not anymore.
He was ten when the raid happened. Hidden beneath the floorboards by his mother, he'd watched through the cracks as shadows moved. Men. Guns. Silver. His parents had fought—his father in wolf form, teeth bared, his mother a blur of fury and fur. They didn't stand a chance.
The men were professionals. Hunters.
And Scott remembered every face.
The next morning, it was Halia who found him. A werecoyote. Wild and untamed, with yellow eyes that matched his own. She took him in, raised him in the forgotten edges of East London. Taught him how to survive. How to hide. How to wait.
"Vengeance is a dish best eaten cold," she said once, a crooked smile on her lips. "But wolves like you—sometimes you gotta let it burn through first."
Scott never forgot. Not the fire. Not the screams. Not the silence that followed.
The fire had started with the scent of blood.
One of the sentries never returned from patrol. Then came the scream—sharp, cut short. By the time the alarm rang through Moonridge, it was too late. The hunters were already inside the perimeter.
Scott had just been put to bed, still clutching the wooden wolf figurine his father carved him, when his mother burst through the door. Her face was wild, torn between fear and fury.
"Under the floor," she hissed. "Now."
He tried to ask what was happening, but she didn't wait. She ripped up the rug and flung the boards aside, shoving him into the crawlspace. Her hands trembled.
"Don't move. Don't make a sound. No matter what you hear."
Then she was gone.
Through the thin cracks, Scott watched the nightmare unfold.
The front door exploded inward, and men flooded the cabin—black-clad, faces covered with masks that gleamed like bone. They moved with military precision, fanning out, weapons raised. The silver in their gear gleamed under the flickering lamplight.
His father, Alaric Damien, stormed into the room in full shift—his wolf form massive, dark-furred, his eyes gold with rage. He roared and tore through the first intruder, slashing open his chest with one swipe. Another hunter raised his gun, but Alaric leapt, jaws locking around the man's throat.
But for every one that fell, two more entered.
Scott's mother, Lyra, joined the fight, her coyote-like form weaving through the chaos—fast and precise, her claws cutting down a hunter mid-turn. She moved like wind and fire, fighting beside Alaric, their bond clear in every movement.
It was almost enough.
Almost.
But the silver gas came next—thick, metallic, choking. Scott could smell it through the floor. He could see his mother stagger, coughing, her shift faltering. His father roared and charged forward in a final burst.
That's when he appeared.
A shadow.
Tall, broad, cloaked in black armor unlike the others. He didn't wear a mask. Just a hood, his face hidden beneath darkness and hate. The others made way for him as if he were death itself.
Alaric lunged at him.
The shadow moved with unnatural speed—too fast, too smooth. He caught Alaric midair and drove a long, black blade into his chest. Alaric howled once. Then fell.
Scott screamed—but the crawlspace muffled it, just as his mother had intended.
Lyra let out a sound unlike anything Scott had ever heard. Not a growl. Not a cry.
A keening.
She surged at the shadow, claws flashing, but another hunter tackled her from the side. Two more joined. She fought like hell, but they overwhelmed her, driving her down.
The shadow stood over her, blade still wet with her mate's blood.
"Enough," he said. His voice was deep. Cold. "We came for the Alpha."
He turned away as the others held her down.
Scott didn't see her die.
But he heard it.
The silence after was worse.
Hours later—maybe minutes, maybe lifetimes—he crawled out of the floorboards, numb, shaking. The cabin was ash. The others were gone.
The forest swallowed the screams