“Had…enough yet?” Fenrir rasped, clutching his bleeding arm. “...Bloodsucker.” A deep scratch from the vampire was gushing blood, dripping onto the grass in tiny beads of shimmering crimson. The vampire standing opposite him didn’t look much better. Wandering into Draven territory was a death sentence. The Draven Clan was the largest werewolf clan on this side of the forest. This vampire must have had a death wish. Or maybe it was just stupid. Fenrir didn’t know and didn’t care.

All he knew was that they’d sauntered into his clan’s side of the forest. Goddamn vampires thought they were better than everyone else. Did this parasite really think it could pass through here unscathed? Absolutely not.

He growled, hair standing on end. The moon was in its third quarter phase; he wasn’t able to use the full extent of his power. The full wolf-man transformation could only occur under the light of the full moon, trapping him in an awkward mid-transformation phase.

He was tired and slightly dizzy. His body wasn’t regenerating as fast as it should. He knew the vampire could smell his blood; it could drain him dry if it felt inclined to do so. If this fight went on any longer, he’d be done. Finished! As it was, he could barely stand.

“W-what?” He snarled, stumbling forward. Damnit! I’m gonna pass out! “Are y’just gonna stand there like an idiot?!” It was getting hard to speak. He was panting, his vision beginning to spot. He couldn’t die yet. Not until he sank his teeth into that bloodsucker’s throat!

Fenrir’s head felt fuzzy. Even worse, the vampire was smirking at him. No! No, no! Stand your ground!

He growled, shaking his head in a desperate attempt to stay conscious. It was proving to be futile.