The Call of the Forgotten

The howl faded into the night, but its presence lingered like an unfinished sentence.

Kael stiffened. It hadn't been just a sound—it had been a summons. A call woven into something deeper than instinct, something his blood recognized before his mind could process it.

Fenrir remained still, ears flicked forward, waiting. Watching.

Rhia touched his arm. "Kael. I don't like this."

"Neither do I." But the words felt hollow. Because beneath his unease, something else stirred—something that wanted to answer.

Then the air shifted.

From the depths of the ruined village, figures emerged. Not shadows this time. Not illusions.

Men. Clad in dark armor, their faces hidden beneath hoods and masks. Silent. Unmoving. Yet their presence crackled with restrained power.

Kael's grip tightened around his sword. "You smell it too, don't you?" he murmured to Fenrir.

She let out a low, rumbling growl.

One of the men stepped forward, tilting his head as if studying Kael. Then he spoke, voice rough and measured.

"It's true, then. The bloodline still breathes."

Kael's pulse hammered.

Rhia tensed beside him, fingers tightening around her dagger. "Who are you?"

The man ignored her. His eyes remained fixed on Kael. "You bear the scent of the First Alpha. The one forsaken. The one lost."

Kael's breath hitched. "You're mistaken."

The man chuckled darkly. "Am I?"

Then, in one swift motion, he dropped to one knee.

And behind him, the others followed.

Not in surrender.

In recognition.

Kael took a step back, heart pounding. "What are you doing?"

The kneeling man lifted his gaze. "Welcoming our Alpha home."

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