The night air was thick with tension. The Howlett estate, usually a beacon of order and control, now held an undercurrent of unease. The flickering torches outside the grand manor cast long, wavering shadows over the square, where riders and workers murmured in hushed tones. Their conversations, though low, carried a sense of urgency.
In the midst of this growing anxiety, an elderly figure stood firm. Mr. Howlett, the head of the estate, gripped his weathered cane, its darkened wood polished from years of use. His silver-white hair, thin but neatly combed, shone under the dim lanterns. Though his frame had weakened with age, his posture still commanded respect. His sharp gray eyes scanned the gathered men, betraying both wisdom and an unyielding will.
A sudden shout cut through the heavy silence.
"Master James is back!"
The call came from the watchtower. A figure on horseback emerged from the tree line, galloping toward the estate at full speed. The sentry, caught between relief and excitement, waved his torch wildly. The tension in the square eased.
Mr. Howlett let out a slow breath and eased himself onto the steps leading into the manor. He did not allow his relief to show, but he gripped his cane a little less tightly.
Within moments, James reined in his horse and dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the cobblestone square with a dull thud. His clothes were stained with dirt, sweat, and faint traces of blood, but his movements were steady, his expression composed.
His keen eyes swept across the estate, briefly noting how the manor guards had instinctively reached for their weapons upon his approach. Their tension, though unnecessary, was telling. Something was wrong.
James crossed the courtyard in long, purposeful strides and knelt beside his grandfather.
"Grandfather, what's happened?" His voice, though calm, carried an edge of concern.
Mr. Howlett's gaze settled on him, unreadable for a moment. Then, with a voice both firm and weary, he asked, "Do you even realize what time it is? Why did you return so late?"
James bowed his head slightly. "Forgive me. I lost track of time in the woods. It wasn't my intention to worry you."
His grandfather studied him closely, his eyes lingering on the faint bloodstains on James' sleeves. He said nothing of it. Instead, he let out a slow exhale, tapping his cane against the ground.
"Don't make it a habit, boy. Things are... unstable as of late."
Without further explanation, he turned and motioned toward the manor doors. "Come inside. It's time for dinner."
The workers took this as their cue to disperse, returning to their duties without question. Whatever had unsettled the estate, it was clear that the old man had no intention of discussing it in public.
As James followed his grandfather inside, he felt a lingering gaze on him. From across the courtyard, standing beneath the watchtower, Victor Logan watched in silence.
Victor was taller than James, his frame even more imposing. His long, unkempt dark brown hair framed a face lined with something primal—something barely restrained. His eyes, keen and predatory, glinted under the torchlight.
James met Victor's stare for a brief moment and gave a slight nod before stepping inside.
Victor didn't respond immediately. Instead, he flexed his fingers, his long, thick nails—now eerily sharp—catching the light. He had stopped bothering to trim them. They had grown beyond the norm, hardened, darkened, carrying a strange metallic sheen.
Only after the last of the workers had gone did Victor finally turn and vanish into the night.
---
A Late-Night Reckoning
Dinner had been uneventful, though James could tell his grandfather was troubled. The old man barely touched his food, his mind clearly preoccupied with something weighty. James considered asking but decided against it. Mr. Howlett was not the type to reveal his burdens until he was ready.
Later, as James retreated to his room, he found O'Hara, the young housemaid, setting down a basin of hot water. She moved stiffly, avoiding his gaze, her lips pressed into a thin line.
James arched an eyebrow. "Grandfather questioned you about me, didn't he?"
She hesitated before giving a slight nod.
James sighed. "Did he reprimand you?"
Still no answer. But her silence spoke volumes.
Feeling guilty, James softened his tone. "I'm sorry, O'Hara. I didn't mean to cause you trouble."
She remained quiet, shifting uncomfortably. Then, after a beat, she said curtly, "What else?"
James blinked. "What else?" He thought for a moment. Then, with a sheepish smile, he said, "Ah… I forgot to bring you a rabbit."
For the first time that evening, O'Hara's stony expression cracked. She shot him a glare, her lips twitching as if she wanted to scold him but decided against it. With a sharp huff, she turned on her heel and marched out, her exit punctuated by a forceful closing of the door.
James chuckled to himself. "Feisty as ever," he muttered, shaking his head.
---
The Awakening of Power
The manor was silent, its residents long since asleep. But James was wide awake.
He had noticed it earlier—his body had changed. Sleep had become almost unnecessary. Energy pulsed through him in ways that felt unnatural.
Without a sound, he stepped onto his balcony and leapt down three stories. His landing was effortless.
He sprinted into the darkness, moving toward the valley beyond the Howlett estate. Each stride devoured the ground beneath him, faster than any horse. By the time he reached the valley, he checked his pocket watch.
Fifteen minutes for fifteen kilometers.
James let out a low whistle. His speed was... unnatural.
Testing himself further, he leapt toward a sheer rock face. His hands dug into the solid stone with ease, fingers embedding themselves deep like claws. He scaled the cliff in mere seconds, his body moving with the precision of an apex predator.
Then, standing at the peak, he flexed his fists. A familiar sensation rippled through his arms.
Shktt!
Six bone claws burst from his knuckles, stark white under the moonlight.
James stared at them, breathing heavily. He hesitated before testing them, slashing at a thick tree trunk. The claws cut through effortlessly, leaving deep gouges in the wood.
His mind reeled.
"Logan... Victor... bone claws... healing... this isn't just strength. This is mutation."
The realization struck him like a hammer. He knew this story. He had seen it before.
Wolverine.
His chest rose and fell as he stared at the blood-slicked claws retracting back into his skin.
Was this a blessing? Or a curse?
The wind howled through the valley, as if the world itself was whispering its answer.
James clenched his fists.
Whatever this was—whatever he had become—he would master it.
And if fate had chosen this path for him, then he would carve his own way through it.