The mourners gathered under a sky heavy with sorrow, the low-hanging clouds threatening rain as if nature itself grieved for the fallen. The Howlett estate, once filled with the sounds of life and prosperity, now lay under a hush of mourning, the weight of John Howlett's absence pressing upon all who stood before his freshly dug grave.
"John Howlett was our honest and loyal partner," Father Hans intoned, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd with solemn reverence. "Throughout his life, he showed the greatest kindness to his family, his friends, and all who walked by his side. He now rests, having lived with love, honor, and devotion. He has walked the path of righteousness, and his faith shall not be forgotten. For him, a crown is laid in the eternal beyond, given by the Lord, the righteous judge. Not only to him but to all who await the day of reckoning. Amen."
A gust of wind passed through the cemetery, rustling the rows of roses planted along the wrought-iron fence, sending petals adrift like whispers of the past. From the rosebushes, a crow cawed mournfully, a lone black specter against the pale sky.
Elizabeth Howlett stood at the forefront, her face hidden beneath the cascading folds of her black veil, yet the grief radiating from her was palpable. The stark contrast of her mourning attire against her pale skin made her appear almost ghostly, a reflection of the loss that had hollowed her heart. In her arms, James clutched tightly to her, his small frame tense with an emotion far too heavy for a child of twelve to bear. He did not cry, though his silence was its own form of heartbreak. Those who witnessed the scene could only feel a growing hatred for the man who had shattered this family.
As the ceremony came to its end, James stepped forward first, his small hand tightening around a single white chrysanthemum. He placed it atop the polished wood of the coffin, fingers trembling slightly as he gathered a handful of dirt and let it slip through his fingers, watching as it dusted the lid of his father's final resting place. One by one, the mourners came forward, offering their last farewells.
From a distance, William Howlett observed in silence. The lines of his face had deepened overnight, his once-gray beard now resembling silver frost. The warmth he had once shown had hardened into something colder, something sharper. Gone was the man softened by years of peace—what remained was the figure known in hushed whispers as Bloodmane, but this time, the blood spilled was that of his own son.
The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving behind only the wind and the scent of damp earth. When the last mourner had gone, Mr. Howlett picked up a shovel, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate stride. Without ceremony, he began filling the grave himself, the dirt thudding against the wood in rhythmic finality.
A few paces away, Rose O'Hara reached for James's hand, her fingers tightening around his in silent solidarity. James turned to her, managing a weak smile, but he did not pull away.
Deep within his heart, a strange mix of guilt and regret churned. He had never felt an overwhelming connection to John Howlett, and yet, there had been an undeniable kindness in the man's presence—a paternal warmth that James could not ignore. Perhaps, given more time, he might have grown to accept him fully as his father. But time was a cruel master, and John's kindness had made him an easy target. He had trusted too easily, believed in the best of men, and in the end, that belief had cost him his life.
James had miscalculated, and now, an innocent man was dead.
The neighboring estate owners whispered among themselves, watching Mr. Howlett from the edges of the burial grounds. They wondered if the weight of grief would break him. They saw an old man who had lost his only son and assumed that he was vulnerable. Their greed grew in the shadows, emboldened by the false belief that the Howlett family's reign had reached its twilight.
They would soon learn otherwise.
The Wolves Awaken
The night after the funeral, while the land was still shrouded in mourning, William Howlett took to the saddle. Before him stretched the vast expanse of his domain, the torches of his gathered men casting long, flickering shadows against the fields. Over three hundred riders stood at the ready—more than any of their rivals had estimated.
They were not just hired men or nameless soldiers. They were the watchmen of the estate, the stable hands, the farmers who had tilled the land, the men who had once fought by Mr. Howlett's side in the days of blood and fire. They had laid down their weapons for peace, built families, lived simple lives. But tonight, they reclaimed their old selves. Tonight, they were wolves once more.
Mr. Howlett sat astride his great black stallion, James nestled before him in the saddle. The boy should have been frightened, should have been clinging to his grandfather in terror. But instead, he watched. He listened. He learned.
"I buried my son today," Mr. Howlett's voice rang out, cold and steady. "And I have time now to deal with other matters. There are those who look upon this tragedy and see weakness. They think an old man will fall to grief, that his family will crumble. They whisper my name in the dark, wondering if I am still the man they once feared."
A hush fell over the assembled riders, the night air thick with anticipation.
"Well then," he continued, his voice sharpening like the edge of a blade. "Let's pay them a visit and remind them who William Howlett truly is. Let's remind them who we are."
With that, he struck his heels into Black Mountain's sides, and the stallion surged forward. Behind him, his riders followed like a living storm, a wildfire blazing through the night.
Three towns. Seven estates. Two hundred and sixteen men dead.
For this, William Howlett paid the price of thirty-four loyal brothers. But he did not waver. Not for a moment. And in his arms, James did not flinch.
He had expected the boy to tremble, to cry, to beg him to turn back. But James did none of these things. He watched with eyes wide and unblinking as the night unfolded around him, his silence far more telling than any words.
As dawn approached, the company returned, their bodies weary but their purpose fulfilled. Mr. Howlett looked down at his grandson, suddenly gripped by an unfamiliar fear. Had he destroyed the child's innocence? Had he forced him too soon into the world of men?
"Jamie?" he asked hesitantly, his voice for the first time that night betraying uncertainty.
James turned to look at him, his young face streaked with exhaustion, but his eyes—his eyes burned with understanding.
"Yes, Grandfather?"
Mr. Howlett felt the weight of his own breath. His spine, which had held firm through battle and bloodshed, softened ever so slightly. He placed a rough, blood-stained hand on James's dark hair, fingers threading through it with an almost painful tenderness.
"Remember this," he murmured. "Remember it all."
James nodded. "I will, Grandfather."
And William Howlett knew, in that moment, that the boy was lost to innocence forever.
The Grave of Thomas Logan
Far to the east, at the edge of the estate, Victor Logan stumbled upon a corpse. The remains were unrecognizable, picked apart by crows and the nameless scavengers of the wild. The face had been devoured, the flesh torn beyond recognition. And yet, Victor knew.
He had no need for a name.
Without hesitation, he shouldered the body and carried it up the steep, rocky incline of the valley's cliffs. With bare hands, he dug a grave. His nails cracked, his fingers bled, but they healed just as quickly as they broke. He did not stop until the earth had swallowed his father whole.
No cross marked the grave. No words were spoken in remembrance.
Victor dusted off his hands, cast one final glance at the dirt-covered hole, and turned away.
His past was buried. His future lay ahead.
And he would never look back.