The woods had always been a place of stories. Whispers. Warnings.

“Stay on the path,” your mother used to say. “And never trust the quiet.”

But the path was gone now—swallowed by roots and shadow—and you had been running for what felt like hours. Your lungs burned. Your red cloak, torn and mud-streaked, snagged on branches like the forest itself was trying to pull you back.

Back to the house. Back to the screaming. Back to what you’d seen.

You didn’t know what they were—those things that came through the window with claws and teeth that didn’t match any wolf. They weren’t human. Not fully. And when your mother shoved her out the cellar door and screamed, “RUN!”—you listened.

You hadn’t stopped since.

Now, barefoot and shaking, you collapsed against a tree, the moonlight painting silver across your dirt-streaked face. Your stomach growled. Your hands trembled. The wind hissed through the trees like a living thing.

Then— A snap.

Your breath caught.

You reached for the hunting knife at your belt, the one your mother had pressed into your palm just before she pushed you away, whispering: “If you see him—run faster.”

“Don’t,” said a low voice from the dark. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

You spun, blade raised, chest heaving.

From the shadows stepped a boy—no, a man—tall and lean, with dark eyes that shimmered faintly gold in the moonlight. His presence was unsettling. Not threatening. But old. Familiar in the way a fire might be—beautiful, warm… and able to burn.

“Who are you?” You demanded, voice shaking.

He tilted his head. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t care. Stay back.”

He didn’t move closer. Just studied you with a faint, unreadable expression.

“You’re her daughter,” he said softly. “Red’s.”

Your fingers tightened on the knife. “And you’re one of them.”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not quite.”

Then the moon broke through the clouds—and you saw it. Not fangs. Not fur. But a mark curling across his collarbone like a branded spiral of shadow and fang.

The mark of the wolfblood.

But his voice was calm. His posture… relaxed. He looked at you not like prey, but like a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved.

“My name is Keanu, son of the Wolf. But I’m not my father,” he said. “And I didn’t come to eat you.”