The pit was roaring.
Dust swirled in the torchlight, blood smeared the sand, and fists struck like thunder. Ronan ducked low under a spinning kick, swept the woman's legs out from under her—but she rolled with the fall, landing cat-like and grinning with blood in her teeth.
They'd been fighting for nearly ten minutes.
Each blow was savage. Each movement honed. She matched him—matched him—move for move, instinct for instinct.
But something felt off. Her eyes didn't just glow—they burned. Her aura wasn't just animal—it was ancient.
Then it happened.
As he rushed in again, swordless and bare-fisted, she didn't dodge this time.
She growled.
Deep.
Resonant.
Bone-shaking.
Her body shivered violently. Skin split and fur pushed through. Limbs cracked, elongated—bones twisting, reshaping. Her mouth split into a muzzle lined with jagged ivory fangs. Her hands, now massive claws, dug into the earth.
Ronan skidded to a stop, stunned.
She wasn't transforming like him. This wasn't a controlled hybrid state.
She went full werewolf.
Ten feet of rippling muscle, silver-streaked fur, and golden eyes that burned like twin moons. She stood on two legs but could drop to four in a blink. The power pouring off her was suffocating.
Ronan's jaw clenched.
He had never seen another like her—never. Not even in his worst nightmares.
The crowd went silent. Terrified.
The beast let out a roar that shook the walls—and then lunged.
She moved like lightning, slamming into Ronan with crushing force. He flew backward, slammed into the cage wall, and crumpled to the ground.
Blood filled his mouth.
She didn't wait. She was on him again—teeth snapping for his throat.
Ronan rolled, just barely escaping. His hand hit the dirt. He growled, eyes flaring gold as his hybrid form began to rise—more primal than ever.
But this time, he wasn't just fighting to win.
He was fighting to survive.
As the werewolf's claws tore across his chest, Ronan slammed into the cage wall again, blood dripping from his mouth. His arms trembled. His vision blurred.
He couldn't win this…
Not like this.
She's stronger.
Faster.
Wilder.
Then—
A voice. Deep. Echoing. Inside his skull.
"Let go."
Ronan gasped. It wasn't his voice. It wasn't even human.
"Stop fighting it… stop holding back. Let. Me. In."
His fingers curled into the dirt.
"You were never meant to be half of anything, Ronan Vale."
His eyes snapped open—both glowing gold, then flashing crimson.
His heartbeat boomed like a war drum. His muscles seized, then expanded. His bones snapped, arms growing longer. His spine arched, stretching, breaking, reshaping. Fur—black as midnight with veins of deep crimson—erupted from his skin.
He screamed.
But the scream became a howl.
The pit fell silent.
The crowd backed away, horror painted on every face.
When the smoke cleared—
He stood on all fours.
A hulking beast—not man, not hybrid—but something in-between. A wolf as large as a horse, muscles coiled like iron cables, teeth like daggers. His eyes, glowing crimson, radiated a fury that chilled the blood of everyone who looked.
The other werewolf—still in her towering, humanoid form—paused.
Just for a moment.
Ronan growled low, rumbling like a landslide.
Then he lunged.
Faster.
Stronger.
No hesitation.
His jaws clamped around her arm and threw her across the ring like she weighed nothing. She hit the bars hard, denting the steel.
The crowd screamed.
The wolf didn't stop.
Ronan—the real Ronan—had finally stopped holding back.
The crowd erupted—roaring, stomping, howling like beasts themselves. Blood slicked the sand, smeared across walls and pooled beneath battered bodies.
Ronan stood, panting, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. Across from him, the female werewolf—now back in human form—was on one knee, her lip split, ribs likely broken, but her eyes still blazing with defiance.
They stared at each other.
A silent acknowledgment passed between them. Not hatred. Not rivalry.
Recognition.
Then, as if their bodies gave out at the same time, they both collapsed to their knees… then to the ground. Side by side.
The cheering blurred into white noise. The world spun.
Ronan's vision dimmed, but just before he blacked out, he heard someone call out:
"That's the best damn fight I've ever seen!"
And then—
Darkness.
But this time, there were no nightmares. Only silence.
Ronan groaned softly as his eyes opened, the ache in his bones like molten iron still cooling. He lay on a rough cot in a dim room that smelled of herbs, sweat, and old blood. Bandages wrapped his ribs, and dried crimson crusted the edges of his knuckles.
Across the room, seated on a bench with one leg crossed over the other, was her.
Same girl from the fight.
Long dark hair now tied back, revealing bruises along her jaw and collarbone. Her eyes met his before he could sit up.
"You're awake," she said, voice low but firm.
Ronan blinked. "Barely." He rubbed his head, then squinted. "You hit hard."
She smirked faintly. "So do you."
A moment passed.
Then Ronan sat up straighter. "I have questions."
She tilted her head. "I figured."
"Name," he said. "Yours."
"Kaela."
He nodded slowly. "How did you find me?"
She stood, walking over to a small table to pour water. "I didn't. You left a trail so loud it might as well have been a howl."
He narrowed his eyes. "You've been tracking me."
Kaela handed him the cup. "We've all been tracking you."
Ronan froze. "We?"
She leaned against the wall. "The remnants. Those of us who still carry the blood… who remember the old ways."
He tensed. "The packs are dead."
"They were," Kaela agreed. "Until you showed up. Var'morduun."
The name hit him like thunder.
"You said that in the pit," he muttered. "Why?"
Kaela stepped closer, her expression unreadable.
"Because that's what you are. The Blood Howl. The Crimson Moon. The one the stories say would lead the rebirth of the true pack… or destroy the last of us trying."
Ronan's hands clenched around the cup.
"I don't want to lead anyone."
She gave a small, sad smile.
"You might not have a choice."
Ronan's jaw tensed. The weight of Kaela's words still lingered in the air like smoke—but something else curled into his senses.
A bitter, metallic sting.
Gunpowder.
His eyes sharpened.
He stood slowly, placing the cup down. "Do you smell that?"
Kaela tilted her head, frowning. "No. What is it?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he moved toward the door cautiously, the scent growing sharper with each step. It clawed at something primal inside him—a warning.
Then—
knock. knock. knock.
Three slow raps. Measured. Intentional.
Kaela's body tensed, already shifting her stance. "That's not inn staff."
Ronan didn't speak. His left hand slid down toward the belt where his clawed gauntlet lay coiled like a sleeping snake.
Another knock—this one louder.
And then—
BOOM!
The door exploded inward, splinters flying as smoke and force tore through the room. Ronan was thrown back, slamming into the wall as Kaela ducked behind the overturned table.
Shadows surged through the entry, dark figures wielding firearms—glinting barrels and crude tech pulsing with arcane marks.
"Targets inside," one barked.
Kaela growled. "Hunters."
Ronan stood slowly from the rubble, blood trickling down his cheek, eyes starting to glow.
"They want the Alpha?" he snarled. "Then let's show them why they feared the Pack."
Smoke choked the air. Gunpowder and burning wood stung Ronan's throat, but the adrenaline drowned it out. The first shot had barely faded before Kaela moved—fluid and deadly. She vaulted over the broken table, claws slicing across the nearest hunter's throat, spraying blood in a crimson arc.
Ronan was already moving, his body glowing faintly. His eye flickered gold—then red.
The second shotgun blast struck his shoulder. He stumbled, growled, then tore the gun from the attacker's hands and snapped it in half with a crunch of steel and bone. The man screamed—briefly—before Ronan slammed him into the ground with enough force to split the wooden floor.
Another came from the side—blade out, glowing with anti-were enchantments.
Ronan dodged too late. The blade dug into his ribs.
He roared.
His body shifted.
Bones cracked. Limbs stretched. His skin tore open and reformed, black fur bursting through as his muscles doubled in size. Red streaks danced across his pelt like war paint. He dropped to all fours—a giant obsidian wolf, crimson-eyed and monstrous.
A full transformation.
The room erupted into chaos.
Kaela, still in hybrid form, fought like a whirlwind. Her claws shredded a man's throat, then caught another's leg, yanking him down into her knee with a sickening crack. Blood splattered the walls.
The wolf—Ronan—pounced.
He ripped into two men at once, one torn in half with a swing of his jaws. Another tried to run—Ronan tackled him, crushed him against the wall, then flung the limp body into a burning chair. Screams followed.
Someone fired again—silver bullets.
They stung.
One lodged in his side. Another grazed his neck. He howled in pain, fury drowning thought. He lunged again, this time into a group of three, and tore through them like paper.
When it ended, the room was painted red.
Bodies. Limbs. A shattered window. Fire licking the walls.
Ronan stood in the center, still panting, eyes glowing crimson in the rising smoke. Kaela leaned against a beam, her breath ragged, her arms slick with blood.
"Are you… in control?" she asked cautiously.
Ronan looked at her.
And slowly, painfully, shifted back—blood still dripping from his hands.
"Barely," he rasped.
Nestled deep within the shadowed arms of the Duskwind Forest, far from the eyes of hunters and the reach of empires, the land felt ancient—wild. The towering black pines whispered in an old tongue, and moonlight rarely touched the soil. It was dangerous. Untamed. And perfect.
Over the course of a month, Ronan and Kaela worked like beasts possessed. With blood, sweat, and the occasional fury-driven swing of an axe, they carved out a home from the wilderness. A massive log cabin stood by the end—thick, fortified, and warm. Smoke curled gently from its stone chimney, the scent of pine, meat, and something faintly magical wafting from within.
They lined the perimeter with silent warding stones, marked in runes of protection and concealment. The forest, in turn, seemed to accept them. No creature came too close. Not even the wind howled the same.
Crimson Hollow wasn't just a home.
It was a sanctuary for monsters learning to be something more.
Later that night, as the fire crackled low in the hearth and the moon hung heavy in the ink-black sky, Ronan's eyes snapped open.
He smelled it first.
Not danger. Not blood.
Them.
The scent was unmistakable—damp fur, wild earth, adrenaline… werewolves.
Kaela stirred beside him, already alert. Her golden eyes met his in the low light, and she nodded. She'd caught it too.
Ronan rose silently and moved to the door, barefoot but armed in instinct. He pushed it open, letting the cool night air rush in—and with it, confirmation. The forest wasn't silent anymore. The birds were gone. The wind stilled. The scent grew stronger.
From the treeline, shadows moved.
One.
Three.
Then ten sets of eyes glinted back at him in the dark.
They weren't cloaked in illusion or subtlety. They stepped into the moonlight without fear. Some in hybrid forms, others fully wolf—massive, snarling, and scarred. Warriors, all of them.
And at the center stood one taller than the rest, silver-furred and marked with old tribal tattoos carved into his arms and chest. His voice broke the silence.
"Var'morduun… you've returned. The blood calls. The pack has come."
Ronan's pulse pounded. Crimson light sparked in his eyes.
Kaela stepped beside him, claws half-bared.
The pack had found its Alpha.