He analyzed it, his expression shifting between intrigue and disgust. "A werewolf?" he muttered. "Bugia Kingdom? What the hell? His parents are just… normal wolves? No shapeshifting? No primal magic? Just fur and fangs?" He scoffed, flicking the blood away like it was worthless. "Screw that, man. Donatello, who am I to follow orders? I say we rewrite the rules."

  His lips curled into a wicked grin as he rose to his feet, shadows clinging to his form like a living cloak. "I’ll kill this kid first." His grin widened, stretching unnaturally. "Then? I’ll kill all the kids." His laughter echoed through the cavern, a chilling promise of chaos to come.

  Meanwhile, on a cliffside, Lincoln trained beneath the open sky, his shirtless torso glistening with sweat. A massive boulder hung from the red belt around his waist, yet he performed pull-ups with effortless precision, his muscles straining but never faltering.

  As he finished his final rep, he exhaled steadily, untying the belt and letting the boulder drop with a heavy thud. Lincoln took a seat at the cliff’s edge, his legs dangling over the vast landscape below. The wind ruffled his hair as he reached for his water, taking a slow sip.

  “With Arid gone, I have to be on watch for Mordrain from up here… I just hope he’s alright.” His voice was calm, but his thoughts were restless.

  Then, without warning, memories from his past surfaced, unbidden and sharp as claws.

  Lincoln’s Past

  A much younger Lincoln sat near the mouth of a dark cave, his small hands clutching his knees. The distant howls of his pack echoed through the trees, but he remained alone.

  A sleek, powerful wolf approached, its golden eyes narrowing. "Little brother. Why aren't you training with the pack?" the wolf asked, its voice edged with irritation.

  Young Lincoln flinched, gripping the dirt beneath him. “B-because I’m just… flesh. I can’t keep up with you all.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  The wolf’s growl rumbled through the air before it suddenly lashed out, claws raking across Lincoln’s face. He cried out in pain, clutching his bleeding cheek.

  “We don’t even know where you came from,” the wolf snarled. “Mom is a wolf. Pa was a wolf. But you? You’re a werewolf. Do you think that makes you special?!”

  Before Lincoln could respond, the wolf lunged, sinking its fangs into his neck and hurling him into the center of the pack. The others circled, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

  “Now train!” the wolf roared.

  Lincoln trembled, his small body shaking as he forced himself up, his vision blurred by tears.

  Back in the present, Lincoln exhaled sharply, gripping his water flask so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His past never truly left him. It always lurked at the edges of his mind, waiting for moments like this—when he was alone, when he was vulnerable.

  But he had survived then. And he would survive now.

  No matter what.

  In the castle, King Percival Aldara sat at the head of a long, candlelit chamber, his fingers pressing into his temples as he listened to Draven’s report. His once-commanding presence was weighed down by the grim reality before him.

  “Mordrain the Hollow… a notorious serial killer, executed by King Arthur himself, now walks among us once more.” Percival exhaled sharply. “He slaughtered the entire Board of Directors in Camelot. And that man in the alley… I was so quick to blame Althara.” His voice was heavy with regret.

  Draven stepped forward, his expression firm. “With all due respect, Your Majesty… Althara risked her life to save Arid. She knew Mordrain thrived in the darkness, yet she still went after him. She tackled him. Fought him. Whatever loyalty she holds to Melanthius, it’s clear he’s changed her.”

  Percival stroked his chin, considering this. “Perhaps… Maybe she isn’t as reckless as I thought.” He sighed before standing, his voice regaining its authority. “Regardless, we cannot afford to be complacent. Mordrain is still here. Expand the perimeter—I want every inch of this kingdom watched.”

  Draven bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  On the outskirts of the kingdom, Althara crouched low, her sharp eyes scanning the quiet, moonlit expanse. A hunter’s patience. A soldier’s awareness. She placed a wisp of cloud magic in the air, the soft mist curling outward like an invisible web.

  "Booby traps…" she murmured, tracing the hidden lines she had carefully set around her position. Pressure-sensitive barriers, hidden snares, and illusionary pitfalls—Mordrain wouldn’t take her by surprise again.

  She exhaled, flexing her fingers. Something felt… off. Then, her communicator beeped. [Anita: There’s a man outside my room. He’s just standing there.] Althara’s brows furrowed. Anita? Why would she message her instead of calling the guards?

  Her instincts screamed at her to think, to assess, but the image of her younger sister in danger crushed all hesitation.

  She was on her feet in seconds, breaking into a sprint.

  By the time Althara reached the dorm rooms, the corridor outside Anita’s room was eerily quiet. No guards. No signs of struggle. Just the flickering torchlight casting long, twisted shadows.

  Then—a whisper.

  A presence behind her.

  Before she could react, a hand shot out, ice-cold fingers closing around her throat.

  "You came quicker than I thought." Mordrain’s voice slithered into her ear as she twisted, elbowing him hard in the ribs. He barely flinched. Instead, he yanked her back, slamming her into the stone wall. The impact rattled her bones.

  "You fight like a beast." His grin was all sharp teeth and malice. "Let’s see if you break like one."

  Althara’s vision blurred for half a second before she bared her teeth. “Screw you.”

  With a surge of power, she gathered her magic, releasing a burst of cloud force. The hallway exploded with mist, swallowing them both.

  Mordrain chuckled. “Oh? A little storm won’t save you.”

  Althara kicked Mordrain in the face, forcing him back, but before she could react, he raised his palms, and a wave of shadows engulfed her surroundings. The world twisted, turning cold and empty. She blinked, disoriented, as the battlefield vanished.

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  “Where am I?” she muttered, glancing around. The castle was gone. The kingdom was gone. Only darkness surrounded her. Then, without warning, a fist crashed into the side of her head, sending her sprawling. Stars burst in her vision as she hit the ground hard.

  A figure crouched beside her. She recognized him immediately—Charles Pierce, his high school self. He smirked as he leaned down, his voice laced with mockery. “Where are you? Don’t you remember? You ran away when things got tough.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her face into the ground once, twice, three times. Her nose cracked, and pain flared through her skull.

  Before she could react, another shadow moved above her. Ethan Knight landed on her back with both feet, pinning her down. She gasped as a sharp pain shot through her spine. “I gave you my sweater, Althara,” he sneered. “And this is how you repay us? The Gluttony Kingdom could’ve been yours. We could have ruled together. Me as the Sloth King. Charles as the Lust King. And…”

  A blast of energy slammed into her chest, burning through her nerves. She let out a scream as her body convulsed. Another figure emerged from the darkness. Carter Angelo. His gaze was filled with cruel amusement. “And me as the Pride King.” He took slow steps toward her, his voice dripping with disdain. “You really are a stupid bitch, Althara.”

  She coughed, trying to push herself up, but her body barely responded. Carter crouched beside her, shaking his head. “You think the Shadowbane Medallion makes you special? It doesn’t. It makes you lucky. You should have died. Anyone else would have.”

  She shuddered at his words, and before she could respond, his knee crashed into her face. Her head snapped back, blood splattering onto the void-like floor beneath her. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “And what do you do with that luck? You waste it.”

  She barely had time to breathe before his fist drove into her gut, knocking the wind out of her. The impact left her gasping, her vision blurred. Through the pain, she saw the Carter she had once called a friend. A part of her refused to believe this was real. Without thinking, she reached forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

  “Carter…” she murmured, her voice weak but sincere.

  For a moment, he hesitated. Then, without warning, he punched her again, sending her crashing into the ground.

  The illusions wavered, but the pain was real. The memories were real.

  No. This wasn’t just an illusion. This was Mordrain. And he was winning.

  Four years younger, the former King of Atlantis, Maren, stepped forward, his presence commanding and cruel. With a flick of his wrist, a chain of water coiled around Althara’s neck, tightening with a vicious grip. She gasped, clawing at the liquid restraints as they lifted her off the ground before slamming her down with crushing force.

  “You really thought you were something just because you beat me once, huh?” Maren sneered, watching her struggle. “You’re not.”

  Althara gritted her teeth, fighting against the chains, but no matter how hard she tried, they wouldn’t break. Her fingers slipped through the water, unable to grasp or shatter it. It was useless.

  Then, another figure emerged from the shadows—Titian, just as he had been four years ago. He stepped over her fallen form, his expression unreadable as he placed his boot against her throat.

  “You should’ve just let me kill you,” he muttered, pressing down, making it harder for her to breathe. “All this effort, all this running, and for what? People still believe you’re a criminal. Your father’s abuse, your sisters abandoning him… and now you’ve run from your friends too.”

  Althara’s vision blurred as she thrashed against his weight, but the words cut deeper than the pain. Because no matter how much she fought, some part of her feared he was right.

  Titian raised his fist, ready to deliver the final, crushing blow. Althara braced herself, pain and exhaustion weighing her down. But just as his strike came down, something changed.

  Whether it was her unwavering will to fight or the lingering faith of the one person who had ever truly stood by her, a figure materialized before her—a cloud-woven form of Melanthius.

  “I believe in you,” the apparition said, its voice steady and sure.

  Before Titian’s fist could connect, the ethereal Melanthius intercepted the attack effortlessly, then countered with a swift, powerful kick that sent Titian hurtling backward. The illusionary Mel stood firm, an unshakable presence between her and the nightmares that sought to break her.

  Meanwhile, back on the cliff, Lincoln lay sleeping, his breathing slow and steady. A faint breeze passed over him, but something else stirred him awake—a thick, metallic scent in the air. His eyes fluttered open, and to his horror, he found himself in his werewolf form.

  Panic shot through him like a bolt of lightning. His hands trembled as he noticed the blood staining his claws. Beside him, the lifeless body of a little girl lay broken and battered. His breath hitched, his chest tightening.

  “D-Did I do this?!” he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.

  Then came the voices—haunting, condemning, echoing all around him.

  “He’s a monster!”

  “You can never trust a werewolf!”

  “He killed her!”

  Lincoln spun around, searching for the source, only to see a pack of wolves emerging from the darkness. Their eyes burned with disgust, their snarls dripping with hatred. He stumbled backward, hands raised in desperation.

  “Wait! No, I didn’t!” he shouted, but his protests were swallowed by the pack’s relentless judgment.

  Then, his older brother stepped forward.

  “Lincoln, you were always meant to be a monster,” his brother growled. “You think you’re strong? You think you’re in control? Not anymore. Now you’re just a scared little dog running from the mob. How does it feel to be the monster in the story?”

  Lincoln flinched, his back pressing against the cliff’s edge. His body trembled, trapped between the accusing pack and the abyss below.

  Then, from the shadows, Mordrain appeared.

  With a cruel smirk, he grabbed Lincoln’s chin, forcing him to look into his cold, pitiless eyes. “What do you even bring to Auroria Dominion? I heard the only reason you’re still at that school is because Melanthius gave you his points. You don’t belong there. Hell, you don’t belong anywhere.” His smirk widened. “And you had the audacity to hit me with a bed?”

  Lincoln let out a slow, weary sigh. “I know…I’ve been told I was worthless since birth.” He clenched his fists, his voice steadying. “I came to Auroria Dominion because I was the smartest and the only werewolf in Bugia. My homeland is a kingdom where everyone is a wolf. The Demonhide Howlers pack…we were the weakest. I thought I’d be treated like nothing there, just like I always was. But then I met people who actually made me feel like I mattered—Melanthius, Arid, Elowen, Dorian, Renita, Lumi, and so many more.”

  His eyes hardened with resolve. “When Goldman hit me with that hammer, I ran away. Not because I was afraid, but because I needed to confront my past. I returned to my pack and fought my brother, the head of the pack. And that’s when…” He took a deep breath. “That’s when I became the leader of the Demonhide Howlers.”

  Then, without hesitation, Lincoln took a step back and let himself fall.

  Mordrain’s eyes widened in shock. “Dammit…he killed himself?! That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  But before he could relish his apparent victory, something shot back up from the abyss.

  Lincoln soared through the air, a triumphant grin on his face. “Surprised? Me too!”

  Beside him, Althara flew, her expression unreadable as she wove a cloud beneath him, steadying his landing.

  Mordrain’s snarl twisted in rage. “How the hell did you escape my fortress?!”

  Althara raised her hand, forming a razor-thin wisp of cloud that sliced through the air—cleanly severing Mordrain’s arm.

  “I let go of the past,” she said coldly, “and paid attention to the only ones who ever saw hope in me.”

  With that, they landed on the cliff, standing tall against the darkness that had tried to break them.

  Mordrain retracted his shadows, revealing the gruesome scene for what it truly was—nothing more than an illusion. Even the lifeless girl, the one who had nearly shattered Lincoln’s spirit, dissolved into wisps of darkness.

  Lincoln, now fully transformed back into his werewolf form, stepped behind Althara, his breathing steady but his body tense. Althara, however, was far from shaken. Her glare was sharp enough to cut through steel, her rage palpable as she locked eyes with Mordrain.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she said, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath.

  Mordrain smirked, unfazed. With a sickening squelch, he reattached his severed arm as if it had never been removed. A slow, twisted grin spread across his face as he brought his bloodied limb to his lips, running his tongue over the crimson streaks.

  “I’d love to see you try,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “In fact, I would love to see that.”