The morning light crept through the tattered curtains, casting pale streaks across the wooden floor. Ronan stirred, groaning slightly as sore muscles reminded him of last night's brutal fight.
He rose from the creaking bed and walked to the basin again, splashing cold water on his face. As the water dripped down his cheeks, he caught a glint in the mirror—something faint, something wrong.
He turned his head.
And froze.
There, just below the base of his neck, slightly raised against his skin… was a mark.
A symbol.
Circular, almost tribal—fangs wrapped around a crescent moon, with a single slash cutting through the center like a scar.
His breath hitched.
It wasn't a wound. It wasn't recent.
It was old.
Ancient.
And it hadn't been there before.
He reached up and ran his fingers across it. The skin tingled at his touch, pulsing faintly like it recognized him.
No… like it claimed him.
Ronan's stomach twisted. He'd seen this symbol before—drawn in blood on cave walls, tattooed on the shoulders of feral packs, burned into the trees of cursed hunting grounds.
A werewolf clan mark.
It was a sign of belonging. Of ownership.
And somehow, now, it was burned into him.
"…What the hell is happening to me?" he whispered.
He backed away from the mirror, heart pounding, memories spinning. This wasn't just about the beast that bit his bloodline anymore. This went deeper.
Something was waking up inside him.
Something tied to the pack.
Tied to the curse.
And maybe… something far older.
Ronan yanked on his shirt, tugging the collar high to hide the mark. His heart hadn't slowed since he saw it. Every instinct in him screamed move. Find answers.
He stepped into his boots, strapped on his blade, and threw open the door to the inn room. The streets were still quiet—dew glistened on rooftops, and chimneys puffed early smoke—but he didn't stop to enjoy the peace.
He had one place in mind.
The town historian.
An old orc named Erun-Kor, known for his long memory and longer beard. Erun had lived through wars, watched kingdoms rise and fall—and collected the stories no one else dared to remember.
Ronan reached the crooked stone building nestled at the edge of the town square. The wooden sign above the door read Lorekeeper in three different languages, including one Ronan didn't recognize.
He banged on the door with urgency.
After a moment, it creaked open, revealing the gnarled form of Erun-Kor. His greenish skin had gone grey with age, but his eyes—golden and sharp—still burned with clarity.
"Back so soon, Vale?" the orc grunted, peering at him. "You smell like blood and firewood. What is it this time?"
Ronan didn't waste a breath. "I need your help. I woke up with a mark—one I didn't have before. I think it's a werewolf clan symbol."
Erun-Kor's expression shifted. He stepped aside silently, motioning Ronan in.
Inside, the room smelled of old parchment and pipe smoke. Scrolls littered every surface. Strange symbols were etched into the beams.
"Show me," the old orc said, gesturing to a low stool.
Ronan sat, pulled his shirt down, and tilted his neck.
The room went still.
Erun's breath caught.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't with curiosity—but fear.
"You shouldn't have this," the orc muttered, voice low. "This mark… it belongs to the First Pack."
Ronan turned, confused. "What the hell is the First Pack?"
Erun-Kor met his eyes.
"The ones who made the curse."
Erun-Kor lit a long-stemmed pipe, the sweet scent of emberleaf curling through the air. He sat down slowly across from Ronan, folding his thick arms on the table as if the weight of the tale he was about to tell required it.
"You best listen close, boy," the old orc said, voice gravelly. "This story don't get told lightly."
He took a long drag, then began.
"Before kingdoms. Before gods took sides. There were the First."
"They weren't werewolves like the ones you know. No, they were something far more… primal. Spirits in flesh. Wolves born of moonlight and blood magic. They didn't get bitten—they were made, woven by ancient druids and star-blooded shamans to protect the balance of the wild."
"They were called the Moongrim. Thirteen of them. Each a beast greater than a battalion, smarter than any man, faster than the wind through the high peaks. They were guardians. Judges. Executioners."
"But power like that… always draws madness."
Ronan leaned in, listening in silence.
"The strongest among them, a beast named Vorrak the Hollowfang, grew too hungry. Too violent. He devoured sorcerers, turned against his kin. He believed the Moongrim should rule, not serve. The others tried to stop him. And in the war that followed… most of them died."
"The First Pack was broken. Their blood scattered across the world. But it tainted the earth. It cursed the rivers. It slipped into the bloodlines of humans… hybrids like you."
Erun-Kor pointed his pipe at Ronan's neck.
"That mark means you're no accident. You're a direct descendant of one of the Thirteen. Maybe even Vorrak himself."
Ronan's breath caught.
Erun continued, voice low now.
"And the stories say… when one marked by the First awakens, it means the others will start to stir too."
He tapped the ash into a bowl, looking Ronan dead in the eye.
"You might not be cursed, Vale. You might be the damn key."
Ronan's fingers curled into fists on the table.
He didn't speak right away. Just stared at the mark on his skin, the memory of it burned into his mind like a brand.
"…What if she was never bitten?" he finally muttered, voice low. "What if everything I was told—everything I believed—was a lie?"
Erun-Kor tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing.
"My mother," Ronan went on, "she told me she was attacked. Said a werewolf bit her while she was pregnant. That I inherited the curse."
He looked up, pain flickering behind his eyes.
"But what if I wasn't cursed? What if I was born this way? What if I was never supposed to be normal?"
Erun took a slow breath. "You're starting to ask the right questions, lad."
Ronan's voice was almost a whisper now. "She always looked scared when I asked about it. Always changed the subject. And the villagers—they hunted us like monsters. But they never said why."
The room grew heavy with silence.
Erun-Kor finally leaned forward. "If she wasn't bitten… then she was chosen. Or marked. Possibly even part of the bloodline herself."
Ronan's heart pounded.
"That would make you…" Erun's brow furrowed. "Not just a hybrid. Not even just a descendant."
"You could be the Last Heir of the First Pack."
The mark on Ronan's neck itched suddenly, like it knew.
And somewhere, deep inside him, something growled—low, ancient, and hungry.
Ronan stood slowly, the old wooden chair creaking behind him. His voice was quiet but edged with urgency.
"One more thing," he said. "Back in the alley… after the fight. A man came up to me. Looked me dead in the eyes and called me something."
Erun-Kor's gaze sharpened.
"Var'morduun."
At the sound of the name, the old orc stiffened. His pipe slipped from his fingers and hit the table with a dull thud.
"…You're sure that's what he said?" Erun's voice dropped, almost a growl now.
Ronan nodded. "He said it like he knew me. Like it meant something."
Erun stood and crossed the room in silence. He rifled through old scrolls stacked haphazardly on a nearby shelf, pulling one wrapped in black twine. The parchment crackled as he unrolled it on the table between them.
"Var'morduun isn't just a name, Ronan. It's a title. An ancient one—older than most tongues still spoken."
He pointed to the faded runes inked in red.
"It means 'Moon's End.' Or in the old war tongue of the packs… 'The Death of the First.'"
Ronan's blood ran cold.
"They believed a time would come when someone born of their bloodline would be powerful enough to end even them. To destroy the last remnants of the Moongrim blood… or become the one who reigns over it."
Erun looked him in the eye.
"If someone called you that… then they either fear what you are, or they're waiting for you to become it."
Ronan turned his gaze to the firelight flickering on the wall, his thoughts a storm of doubt, anger, and something darker.
"…Var'morduun," he whispered.
And somewhere inside, the beast stirred. It liked the sound of it.
Ronan stepped out into the cold night air, his cloak billowing behind him as he left the historian's hut. Var'morduun. The name echoed in his skull like a war drum, and every step felt heavier than the last.
He needed a release.
Not answers.
Not riddles.
Just fists.
By the time he reached the tavern, the lanterns were dim and the laughter low—replaced with that tense, grim energy that only meant one thing: the underground fights were on.
He slipped through the back hall, past the kitchen, and down the hidden stairwell behind a loose rack of wine barrels. Torchlight flickered along stone walls, the air growing thicker with sweat, blood, and adrenaline.
At the bottom, the crowd roared around a sandpit ring—two men locked in brutal combat, no weapons, no rules. Just survival.
"Name?" a gruff dwarf bouncer asked, squinting up at him.
Ronan peeled off his cloak and shirt, revealing scars, muscle, and the crimson runes faintly glowing along his arms and shoulders.
"No name," Ronan said coldly, stepping past him.
The crowd began to hush as he dropped into the ring. The current winner—a towering man covered in tribal tattoos and bruises—grinned through bloodied teeth.
Ronan rolled his neck, his icy-blue eye flickering gold for just a second.
"Let's dance."
The bell rang.
And the beast inside him grinned.
The crowd roared as the Goliath stepped into the ring.
Seven feet of raw, scarred muscle. Bald head, stone-gray skin, and eyes like chipped obsidian. He slammed his fists together, the sound echoing like a war drum through the underground pit.
"Dead man walkin'," someone in the crowd muttered.
Ronan barely flinched. He stood still, hands relaxed at his sides, gold flickering faintly in his left eye. This wasn't about winning. It was about feeling. About reminding himself what he was before the nightmare. Before the name.
Var'morduun.
The bell rang.
The Goliath charged like a living avalanche. Ronan barely dodged the first hammer-like fist—but the second caught him in the ribs, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the cage wall. The crowd howled.
Ronan staggered, coughing blood, but his stance tightened.
The Goliath came again—this time with a flurry of heavy, brutal strikes. Ronan weaved, ducked, took some, blocked others, fists smashing into his shoulders and chest. Each hit like thunder. Bone-jarring.
Then—an opening.
Ronan ducked a wide swing and stepped inside the Goliath's reach. One brutal elbow to the side of the giant's jaw. Another to the ribs. The crowd gasped.
But the Goliath grabbed him, lifted him clean off the ground, and slammed him into the sand with earthshaking force.
Ronan's vision blurred.
He tasted iron.
The beast stirred—let me out, let me out—but he clenched his fists tighter.
Not yet.
The Goliath raised a foot, ready to stomp his skull in.
Ronan rolled, swept the leg, and rose with a bloody grin.
"You hit like a cart," he said, spitting crimson. "But I've been run over by worse."
And then it was his turn.
Ronan's muscles coiled tight, his breath slow and measured—even as blood trickled from his mouth and bruises bloomed along his ribs. The Goliath lunged again, slow and overconfident. This time, Ronan didn't dodge.
He stepped in.
Fist met jaw—Ronan's knuckles splitting against thick skin—but the impact rocked the Goliath's head sideways. Before the giant could recover, Ronan grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the cage wall.
The crowd erupted.
He didn't stop.
Blow after blow rained down, fast and wild. Left hook. Elbow. Knee. Another punch—crack—a tooth flew. Then another. Blood sprayed across the sand.
The Goliath swung wide in desperation. Ronan ducked, snarling—his gold eye blazing like fire under his wild, sweat-slicked hair.
He grabbed the Goliath's arm and snapped it at the elbow with a sickening crunch.
The crowd shrieked in a mixture of horror and awe.
But Ronan wasn't done.
He mounted the Goliath, fists pounding into his skull, one after the other—feral, unrelenting, brutal. He didn't feel the bones breaking under his fists, only the rush of blood, rage, and power surging through him.
"Enough!" someone shouted. "He's done!"
But Ronan couldn't hear them. The beast inside clawed at the walls of his mind, hungry and howling.
He raised his fist one last time—
—and stopped.
Breathing hard, muscles trembling, eyes glowing like coals in a storm.
He rose slowly, the Goliath unconscious and barely breathing beneath him. Blood painted his chest and arms, and silence fell over the pit.
No one dared cheer.
No one dared move.
He had won.
But at what cost?
Ronan froze.
Still standing in the center of the bloodstained pit, chest heaving, knuckles dripping red. But it wasn't the victory that made his heart pound now—it was the scent.
Sharp.
Wild.
Familiar.
It hit him like a thunderclap. Not blood. Not sweat. Not fear.
Him.
The crowd parted as the next fighter stepped into the ring.
A woman.
Late twenties maybe—tall, lean muscle wrapped in dark leather. Her eyes gleamed amber in the torchlight, and streaks of silver ran through her jet-black braid. Scars crossed her collarbone and neck, old and deliberate. She didn't walk like a fighter.
She stalked like a predator.
Ronan's golden eye flared. His instincts screamed. Her scent wasn't just similar—it was identical. Not the surface. Not the sweat or the blood. The soul.
She was like him.
A hybrid.
Her lip curled into a faint smirk as she circled the ring.
"You smell it too," she said, her voice like smoke over coals. "The beast knows its own."
Ronan's pulse thundered in his ears.
Was she part of the first pack? Another survivor? Or something else entirely?
And then she dropped into a fighting stance—fluid, low, precise.
"Don't hold back, Var'morduun," she said. "Let's see what you really are."