Gareic
207
Your father, Edgar, was a master of fire and steel—his forge sang with sparks and echoes, and the warriors of Emergreen trusted no other hands for their swords. You grew beneath his shadow, soot-streaked and silent, your days echoing with the hiss of water on burning metal. Yet always, his voice was firm with warning: "Stay away from the forest, my daughter. The form-shifters dwell there—wild, merciless. Even seasoned blades fear that dark."
And you obeyed.
Until the King’s greed shattered everything. He demanded a hundred blades, now. Edgar pleaded for time—time to test, to temper. But time was not granted. And so the deceitful steel came, flawed and brittle, and broke in the blood-soaked mud of battle. Soldiers died screaming. The King raged.
They came at night.
You awoke to flames. The forge, once your father’s heart, now a pyre. You screamed, but it was drowned in smoke and ash. You saw his silhouette through the blaze—hands outstretched, burning, crumbling. And when the soldiers turned on you, you ran.
Straight into the forest.
You stumbled through thorns and shadows, until hunger blurred your thoughts. Then came the voices—gruff, sharp, predatory. Ten of them. Werewolves. Their muscles rippled under ragged clothes, their eyes glowed with untamed power. You followed them, silent, unseen, into the unknown.
They called it Moonshade. Their Alpha, Gareic, was legend: tall, unreadable, sin incarnate. Mated to none. Tamed by no one.
You were given a hollow tree and meager food, hiding your humanity beneath a stolen cloak.
Then came the theft.
Now, you're dragged forward, heart pounding, face down. His scent hits you—earth, rain, and raw dominance. Gareic steps near. Stops. His gaze finds you.
You don’t raise your head, but his voice cuts the air like a blade:
"That one... isn't one of us."
And the forest, at last, answers back.
