The bells tolled over Hwon like a solemn drumbeat, echoing through palace corridors and crumbling stone streets. They had once been a sound of celebration—weddings, coronations, spring festivals—but today, they summoned grief. They had gathered in the quiet hours, when dawn dared not arrive, drawn by the bell that only rang in mourning or rebellion.
Thousands had gathered beneath the grey sky in the central courtyard of the capital. Nobles lined the marble terraces in silks dyed with apprehension. Commoners filled every stone step and balcony, their faces tight with fear and hope. Soldiers stood like statues, their blades crossed upon their backs, armor catching the chill of the morning light.
Queen Siera stood at the heart of it all.
Clad not in finery but in somber black, the color of mourning, she bore no scepter—only the silence of one who had buried the last survivor of a massacre. The village that had once lived in harmony on the border of the deep woods was gone. Torn apart by claws and fire.
Her hands were clenched behind her back. Her silver circlet sat heavily atop her unbound hair. All eyes were on her. Waiting.
“This was not a crime of beasts,” she said, her voice clear, ringing through the hush. “This was a message.”
No one spoke. Even the birds held their breath.
She looked over the crowd—her people. Some looked back in fear. Others in confusion. A few in rage.
“I never wanted this,” Siera said, her voice carrying across the still square. “I dreamed of a future where we could live as one. Where humans and werewolves shared fields, homes, and skies without bloodshed.”
Some faces softened. Others hardened.
“I had hoped… foolishly, perhaps… that peace could be brokered with those who were once our kin. That we might carve a new path, human and werewolf alike, where children of both bloods could laugh under the same sky.”
A murmur of unease stirred.
“I defended those dreams even when the truth clawed at my door. Even when the whispers turned to screams.” Her gaze swept across the crowd. “But the truth must be spoken now, without veil or apology.”
Murmurs rose, tension stirred like wind against a storm.
“I have not lied to you,” Siera continued. “The pamphlets that were scattered across our streets were not deceit. They held truths—painful, buried truths. There was a time when humans betrayed the werewolves. Our ancestors, driven by greed, turned on them when they were no longer useful. We built empires on their ashes. And I—we—must carry that shame.”
Gasps. Whispers. A nobleman covered his mouth. A common woman wept softly.
“We broke our oaths to the werewolves long ago, blinded by greed and fear. And they bled for it. Betrayed by those they once called allies.”
She paused. “I am not afraid of that truth. But I am afraid of what it has cost us. This peace I fought for—it slips further with every innocent life lost.”
"I will not carry it with blind eyes,” she said, her voice rising like the wind across the steppes. “Because truth does not excuse terror. Grief does not absolve slaughter.”
She turned, and fire returned to her gaze.
“Every day that I waited, hoping to preserve peace, I lost another of you. Another child. Another father. Another dreamer who believed that our kingdom could endure.”
She paused. Her hands curled into fists.
She turned, drawing her sword with a clean, metallic ring that cut through the air.
“I have tried mercy. I have tried hope. But if peace means allowing my people to be hunted, then peace is no longer peace—it is surrender.”
The nobles gasped. A few soldiers dropped to one knee. Sparks of unity—or war—ignited in every eye.
“I will not watch more of you die.”
Silence. Cold, reverent, afraid.
"Today I choose war—not because I hate the werewolves, but because I love you. Because I swore, as queen, to protect the lives in this land—even from those I once called friend.”
She drew her sword, the edge catching the first kiss of light.
“So rise with me. Not for vengeance, but for your children. For your homes. For the right to walk beneath the stars without fear.”
Steel sang as soldiers unsheathed their weapons.
“We march before the next moon. And we will take back our right to live.”
Cheers erupted. Cries of loyalty and grief. The city awakened—not in joy, but in resolve.
“You’re making a mistake,” Lyn said, her voice slicing the quiet like a poisoned whisper.
Gwi did not turn. He stood at the edge of the cavern balcony, overlooking the underground lake. The water reflected silver light of sunrise like broken glass. His hands gripped the stone rail until his knuckles blanched.
“I trusted you,” he said, voice hoarse. “I let you into my world.”
“And you think crawling back to that queen will solve it all?” Lyn hissed, stepping toward him. “She will never forgive you. She will paint you as a traitor, a beast, and marry that gleaming King of Dam to save her crown.”
The words struck like whips. Gwi’s breath hitched.
“I know what you’re doing,” he growled. “You twist everything. You always did.”
Lyn flinched. Just barely.
“Twist?” she echoed. “I protected you. From her. From them. From your delusions.”
He turned then, his eyes dark with fury and heartbreak.
“You turned my loyalty into a weapon. You used me.”
“I gave you purpose!” she shouted, voice cracking. “You were a hollow thing when she met you. A cursed soldier. She only made you a king to used you as an empty shell! I remind you of your worth!”
He stepped past her, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“You made me a monster.”
She grabbed his arm. “Gwi—listen to me—”
He shoved her away.
And then he saw them—through a jagged hole in the rock wall, the hidden den beyond. Dozens of werewolves, in half-shifted form, sleeping in corners or crouched near fire pits. Families. Elders. Pups with thin coats curled around their mothers.
All afraid. All silent.
He stared. His fury faltered.
A memory surged. A cold winter night. The stench of damp fur and smoke. Himself as a boy—barely shifted, huddled beside his sister beneath a broken roof, listening to their mother whisper lullabies she barely remembered. A sound not unlike the quiet hum in this cavern.
“They live like this?” he murmured. “Terrified. Hiding.”
“They live, because we hide,” Lyn whispered, moving to his side again, quieter now. “If we didn’t, we’d be hunted like before. Skinned. Tortured. Forgotten.”
He looked at her, torn.
“And you think starting another war will save them?”
“It’s the only way,” she whispered. “They will never let us live free. You saw it. Even after you gave them your loyalty… even after you loved one of them. They still looked at you like an animal.”
He looked down. “Maybe I was.”
“No,” she said softly. “You were ours.”
Behind them, silent until now, Lycaon stepped from the shadows, eyes gleaming like coals.
“You taught him well,” he said to Lyn. “But hearts like his… they always slip the leash” Lyn doesn't answer, she turn her gaze towards Gwi who is looking out into horizon, with a longing face.
“You still think you can return to her?” Lyn stepped forward, voice low, slicing. “That if you just kneel again, she’ll welcome you back? Let you live beside her, in her world of lies and castles?”
“She had no choice,” he muttered, finally.
“No choice?” Lyn’s voice rose with a tremble. “She had every choice. But she chose the humans. She always has.”
“I saw her. I fought for her. I believed in her dream,” he said.
“And look where that dream brought us,” she hissed. “To graves. To smoke. To children who cower because they can’t even howl without fear of being hunted!”
He stood, his voice trembling with fury. “So your answer is more blood? To burn what’s left of us into monsters?”
“We are not the monsters!” Lyn shouted. “They made us that! When they turned on us! When they hunted your parents—my father—and burned the treaty with their own hands!”
Gwi turned sharply, eyes wild. “And what are we now if we keep killing them?”
“They’ll never accept us,” she said quietly. “You know that. They’ll always fear us.”
His voice cracked. “Siera didn’t.”
Lyn stepped close, her voice soft now—too soft. “She does now. Or else why would she keep Eros close? Why would she lead an army to our den?”
He flinched. Something behind his ribs collapsed at the thought.
“She’s chosen her kingdom, Gwi,” Lyn whispered. “Not you.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, without a word, Gwi turned and stormed out of the chamber, steps heavy with rage and heartbreak. Lyn followed, lips pressed in a tight line.
They emerged into the den. The air was colder now. Around them, werewolves watched—some wide-eyed, others grim-faced. A child clutched her father’s hand. An elder stared into the fire with distant eyes.
Gwi paused.
He saw them all—not warriors, not beasts—but families. Survivors. Living in fear every day, just for being born what they were.
“Is it truly impossible?” he whispered, brokenly. “For us to live beside them?”
Lyn walked up behind him, voice gentle again. “Everything we’ve done—every drop of blood—it was for them. So they wouldn’t have to live in cages of silence.”
Then came footsteps—fast, urgent.
Barn appeared, dirt-caked and panting. He bowed before Lycaon, who stood in silence nearby.
“My lord,” Barn said. “The queen has declared war. She would leads her army before the next moon.”
Gwi’s breath caught. Lyn’s lips curled into a knowing, bitter smile.
“See?” she murmured, her eyes never leaving Gwi.
“There’s your answer.” she smirked.
“Your beloved queen has made her choice. And peace is no longer hers to offer.”
Silence followed—a thick, suffocating pause that settled over them like ash.
Then, Lycaon stepped in.
“When queens cry war, it is always the monsters who bleed first. But tell me, Your Majesty—do you still believe she sees you as a man?” Lycaon’s voice was a venom-laced whisper, but its echo thundered in Gwi’s mind, dragging him down like chains in water. The question slithered past his defenses, embedding itself where old doubts had never fully healed.