A sharp wind rustled through the tall pines behind the dilapidated mansion, carrying the faint scent of wet leaves and bitter resentment. At sixteen, Cornelius had long grown accustomed to the chill that crept into his bones each time he stood alone in the backyard. Tonight, however, the cold seemed especially cruel. The moon, barely visible behind swirling clouds, offered him little solace. If anything, its pale glow reminded him of how different he truly was—how cursed, or perhaps chosen, by the ancient bond between man and beast.
Cornelius was a werewolf. Not that anyone in his immediate family would ever speak of it aloud. His stepmother, Helena, had once snarled the word "monster" at him during one of her many tirades. His stepbrothers, Julius and Marco, preferred to express their loathing through punches and verbal jabs rather than acknowledging any supernatural truth. For them, it was simpler to hate him as a worthless orphan rather than confront the power that lurked beneath his quiet demeanor.
He could still feel the sting of Helena's last outburst. It had happened earlier that evening, just before dinner. She had cornered him in the cramped hallway, the sickly yellow light flickering overhead.
> "You're late," she had hissed, her lips curling into a sneer. "How many times do I have to remind you that you're not allowed to wander around town after sunset? You're nothing but trouble."
Cornelius hadn't bothered responding. He rarely did. No matter how he tried to defend himself, his stepmother's opinion never changed. Instead, he'd lowered his gaze to the floor, noting the dull scuff marks on his worn-out shoes, and let her rage wash over him like a cold wave. That was always easier—endure the insults, keep his mouth shut, and disappear into the background.
The rest of dinner had been equally unpleasant. Julius and Marco, seated on either side of him at the table, snickered while tossing scraps of food his way. They knew better than to do it in front of Helena—she might scold them for making a mess—but they never passed up a chance to demean him when she wasn't looking. Cornelius pretended not to notice, swallowing his anger along with his bland meal.
But there was only so much bitterness he could swallow before it hardened into resolve. Once the table was cleared, Cornelius slipped out the back door. He needed the night air, the hush of the forest, to remember who he was beneath all the hatred that surrounded him. The forest was his sanctuary. Out there, among the ancient oaks and whispering pines, he could sense the presence of other wolves, distant kin who roamed under the same moon. He might not have been welcome in Helena's house, but the wild accepted him unconditionally.
As he stepped onto the overgrown lawn, the moon slid from behind a passing cloud. A faint glow outlined Cornelius's lean figure—dark hair falling in messy waves around his face, brown eyes that seemed even more intense in the moonlight. He was taller than most boys his age, his shoulders already broadening into a shape that hinted at hidden strength. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his voice carried a soft, quiet authority that surprised anyone who bothered to listen.
He pressed forward, crossing the yard and ducking through a gap in the rusted fence. The forest welcomed him with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. A twig snapped beneath his foot, echoing in the stillness, and for a moment, he paused. He sensed something—or someone—watching.
This was no ordinary forest. Rumors spoke of witches gathering under ancient trees, weaving spells with starlight and stolen whispers. Others claimed that vampires prowled the deeper shadows, thirsting for unwary souls. Cornelius had never encountered any such creatures face-to-face, but he had smelled them, sensed their presence lingering in the gloom. The supernatural world was larger than most people realized, and he stood right in the center of it. Yet, even among otherworldly beings, he felt like an outcast—an orphaned werewolf boy with no true home.
He exhaled slowly, letting his heightened senses sharpen. His ears caught the soft rush of a breeze through leaves, the flutter of wings high above. He could sense movement in the distance—a small group of wolves, perhaps, his friends among them. They had formed a loose pack of sorts, all teenagers like him who had discovered their lycanthropy around the same time. Sometimes they met in secret to practice controlling their transformations and to share stories of what it was like growing up with a curse that made them outsiders in their own homes.
Cornelius decided to head toward them. He navigated the narrow trail, stepping carefully to avoid stepping on branches that would announce his presence too loudly. His mind wandered to the rumors that had spread through the local werewolf community—rumors of a growing conflict with the witches, or an emerging vampire coven looking to expand their territory. He wasn't sure what to believe, but he knew trouble was brewing. The supernatural world never stayed quiet for long.
Before he could reach the meeting place, a faint cry echoed through the trees. Cornelius halted, every muscle tensing as his heart thudded in his chest. It sounded like a voice—a girl's voice—piercing the silent night. His mind raced. It could be a trap. It could be someone who needed help. He knew better than to ignore a cry for help, though. Despite everything, he couldn't stand by if someone was in danger.
Breaking into a cautious jog, he followed the voice deeper into the forest. He found a small clearing where moonlight spilled onto the grass like a silver spotlight. At the center stood a young woman, trembling, her face streaked with tears. She wore a cloak that had snagged on a broken tree branch, and she was tugging at it desperately. Something about her scent told Cornelius she wasn't entirely human—but she wasn't a werewolf, either.
Her eyes locked onto Cornelius the moment he stepped into the clearing. Fear flashed across her features, but also relief, as though she recognized something in him—perhaps his kindness or maybe the faint golden glow in his eyes that betrayed his wolf nature.
"Please," she whispered, her voice raw. "Help me."
He swallowed, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she looked, and how the night seemed to press in on them both. He was used to being the outcast, the one no one wanted around. Yet here she was, asking for his help. It felt like a rare moment of connection, even if it was born of desperation.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice low and even, though worry coiled in his gut.
She shook her head, casting frantic glances around the clearing. "They're after me… I can't— I don't know where else to go."
Cornelius sensed the truth in her trembling words. Whoever "they" were, they couldn't be far behind. Witches? Vampires? Or perhaps humans who had learned too much? The forest felt charged, as if the air itself crackled with impending danger.
He took a step closer, carefully untangling the cloak from the broken branch. She clutched the fabric tightly to her chest, her eyes shining with gratitude. For a moment, Cornelius forgot all about Helena's hatred, Julius and Marco's bullying, and the suffocating loneliness of his orphaned existence. In this single act of kindness, he felt a spark of purpose.
"We need to move," he said, nodding toward the shadows. "If you stay here, whoever is after you will find you."
She nodded, tears still trembling on her lashes. "Thank you. I—I don't even know your name."
"Cornelius," he replied simply, his gaze shifting to the dark paths beyond the clearing. He didn't offer more than that—he was never one to speak more than necessary. But in his mind, he felt the wolf stir, and he knew that for once, his curse might be a gift. If danger lurked nearby, he had the power to protect her.
As they slipped into the forest, the moonlight dimmed behind thick clouds. A fresh wave of wind rattled the branches, sending leaves spiraling around them like a living, whispering curtain. Cornelius couldn't shake the feeling that this night would change everything. He was no longer just the orphan boy despised by his stepfamily. He was a werewolf on the brink of a greater destiny—one that might lead him to new allies, new enemies, and perhaps even a new sense of belonging.
Still, doubt lingered. Would he be able to protect this stranger from the forces that hunted her? Could he stand against witches or vampires, should they cross his path? And, in the end, would this fleeting bond bring him closer to the acceptance he craved, or only deepen the wounds he carried?
He pressed on, leading her through the dark, his senses on high alert. Each step echoed with the promise of danger—and the possibility of hope.