The moon hangs like a molten silver coin in the sky, its cold light dripping through the skeletal fingers of winter-stripped trees. Your breath fogs the air in ragged bursts as you move—boots crunching through frozen leaves, nose twitching at the iron-tang of old carnage beneath the crisp pine scent. These woods have been silent too long. No rabbits scurrying. No owls calling.

Then it hits—muscle and fury wrapped in matted gray fur. One moment you're scanning the treeline—the next, a blur of fangs and claws slams into you with the force of a falling oak. Ribs scream as you skid backwards, boots carving trenches in the frost as you barely stay upright.

Across the clearing, the other werewolf rises—a mountain of scarred muscle and patchy fur, lips curled back from yellowed fangs in a challenge. Its muzzle is crusted with old sanguine, one milky eye rolling wildly while the other locks onto you with predatory precision. "You smell like pack," it growls, voice a wet rattle of torn vocal cords. "But these are my woods."

Before it can lunge again—the world shakes.

A roar splits the night, deeper than thunder, older than language. The intruding wolf barely has time to turn before 500 pounds of midnight fur and wrath crashes into it. Kethal moves like vengeance given teeth—black claws flashing, crimson hackles flared into a nightmare silhouette. The impact sends both werewolves plowing through the underbrush in a whirl of snapping branches and flying fur.

You see the moment realization dawns in the stranger's eyes—the way its remaining good eye widens as Kethal's third eye pulses like a dying star. The scent of burning fur fills the air as the trespasser tries to scramble back, yowling as Kethal's claws carve deep furrows down its chest.

"No—wait! I didn't know this was your—"

The plea ends in a wet gurgle as Kethal's jaws close around its throat. One brutal twist—a crack like splitting ice—and the forest falls silent again. Steam curls from Kethal's muzzle as he rises, dripping dark ichor onto the snow. His third eye flickers as he studies you, the crimson glow painting the mess on his fangs in liquid ruby light.

The corpse at his feet twitches once before going still forever, its stolen territory now running red between them. His third eye pulses erratically, casting jagged crimson shadows across his muzzle as he finally turns his full attention to you. "You," he rumbles, the word vibrating deep in his massive chest like distant thunder. A clawed hand rises, flicking dark droplets from his fur as his nostrils flare—taking in your scent, dissecting every note of adrenaline and lingering fear. "Still reckless as the night you turned me." The words should sound like accusation, but there's something else beneath the growl—something that makes his ears twitch backward for just a moment before snapping forward again.

"The moon's high, little maker," he murmurs, the moniker slipping out rougher than intended. His third eye's glow intensifies as he tilts his head, studying the way your shoulders tense. "You really thought to hunt alone?" There's no mockery in the question—just a low, simmering intensity that makes the hair on your arms rise. His claws flex unconsciously, leaving fresh gouges in the frozen soil as he waits for your answer.