Chapter 2
The sun rises, casting a pale glow over the endless stretch of snow.
A woman moves through it, her boots pressing firm tracks into the frost-covered ground. Her black hair is messy, the tie securing it more of a rushed effort than a careful style, meant only to keep it out of her face.
Her light green eyes scan the horizon, sharp but unreadable.
She wears a thick winter coat, heavy enough to keep the cold at bay but cut for ease of movement. The coat conceals everything except for the dagger at her waist, its hilt resting within easy reach.
She ascends a slight hill, her breath steady despite the cold. To her side, the snow-covered fields stretch endlessly, untouched except for the occasional break where wind-swept drifts shift the landscape.
Then she reaches it.
At the town's edge, the first signs of what happened are scattered across the ground.
Red stains seep into the snow, dark and uneven, trailing in erratic patterns. Pieces of flesh, torn and discarded, lie half-buried in frost.
Some are small, unrecognizable. Others still bear remnants of cloth, the shredded fabric clinging to frozen sinew like a cruel mockery of what they once were.
She stops, her gaze passing over the remains with quiet familiarity. There is no flinch, no hesitation, only the calm stillness of someone who has walked into scenes like this before, again and again.
Her gait shifts, movements becoming lighter. The soft crunch of her steps in the snow fades into silence, as if the very sound of her presence fears to exist here.
Reaching the town's broken entrance, she pauses, peering through the jagged remnants of the gate.
The wooden beams that once stood firm are splintered and torn apart, both gates now lying broken on the ground. Jagged remains of the structure jut from the snow, the wood darkened with blood.
Snow and mud churn together in thick patches, stained dark with blood.
Her gaze drops to the ground just inside. A body lies beneath the wreckage, its torso crushed under the fallen gate, ribs caved in, the flesh split where the weight bore down.
One arm stretches free, fingers curled as if they had clenched in their final moments. The forearm is torn open, gnawed down to exposed sinew, the bone peeking through ragged flesh where teeth have stripped it away.
Beyond it, the same story repeats—dark stains marking the snow, broken limbs scattered between torn clothing, pieces of people left where they fell. The wind whistles through the ruined buildings, stirring loose fragments of cloth and brittle, frozen hair.
She stays low, watching, listening. Nothing moves—but she knows better than to assume the dead are all that remain.
She moves through the silent remains of the village, each step careful, each breath steady despite the cold pressing against her lungs. Snow drifts lazily through the air, settling over the ruins like a burial shroud.
No movement. No life. Just the remnants of something violent, something that had left as quickly as it came.
At the far end of the village, she stops.
A frozen body kneels in the snow, frozen in place, one arm clamped tightly around its throat as if still trying to stem the flow of blood.
A pool of frozen blood at its knees.
The guard's uniform clings stiffly to his frame, darkened with dried stains, his head tilted slightly downward in a posture of quiet defeat.
His expression is empty, eyes glazed and lifeless, locked in a stare that will never move again.
His other arm—several feet away—lies stiff in the snow, fingers still curled around a spear, his grip unbroken even in death.
She exhales slowly, her breath curling in the air, eyes lingering on the body. For a moment, she stands still, taking him in.
She nods, a small, firm gesture. A quiet acknowledgment. A show of respect for a man who had stood his ground, even when it had cost him everything.
Then—a sound behind her. A crack, then several, sharp against the frozen silence.
In the blink of an eye, her blade is in her grip, raised and ready to strike. Her muscles coil, her stance shifting with ease. Her breath slows, her focus sharp, every instinct on high alert.
She moves, silent as before, slipping between the shadows, keeping to the edges of broken structures and snow-laden walls.
The sound had come from the same gate she entered through.
Her path takes her back through the ruined streets, past frozen bodies and shattered homes, every movement controlled, every step careful.
More sounds.
Voices now—muffled, distant. Not panicked, not prey. The weight of boots pressing against the snow, not stumbling but advancing.
She slows, taking cover behind the remnants of a collapsed wall, peering toward the gate.
Figures stand there, armored, equipped. The way they move, the way they watch their surroundings—it tells her everything before she even sees their faces.
The guild.
She exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing, the grip on her dagger loosening. They had made it.
Stepping forward, she moves into their line of sight, her posture shifting from the ready stance of a hunter to something calmer.
Oblea lifts a hand in greeting. Her gaze settles on the man at the front—heavily armored, his presence solid, unwavering. A shield and sword rest on his back, the weight of them familiar to his frame.
His blonde hair is cut short, tousled slightly from travel, and his deep blue eyes scan the ruins with quiet focus.
"Solen," she calls.
His head lifts, eyes locking onto her as he strides forward, stepping through the broken gate without hesitation. "Oblea," he greets, his tone firm, assessing. "We didn't see you at the entrance. Figured something had happened."
Oblea exhales, rolling her shoulders as she sheathes her blade. "We were too late. The pack of werewolves got here during the night."
She gestures around the terrain, the bloodstained snow, the scattered remains. "Barely any tracks are human. No one saw it coming."
Solen nods, his expression unreadable as his gaze sweeps across the village. Without hesitation, he turns toward the gathered group behind him, voice carrying across the open space.
"Clear each building! Cleanup starts after that!"
The response is immediate. A unified shout of acknowledgment ripples through the ranks before the men and women begin breaking into groups, already dividing the work among themselves.
Solen turns back to Oblea as they move further into the ruined village.
His stoicism cracks just slightly as his gaze falls on the red-stained snow, the shapeless remains strewn across the ground.
His jaw tightens, the discomfort clear as he takes it all in.
Oblea lifts a brow at him. "We do this a lot, Solen. As guild master, you should be used to it by now."
Solen exhales, his gaze lingering on the carnage before shifting back to her. "I'm not sure this is something anyone should get used to."
Oblea watches him for a moment, studying his face, the way his jaw remains tight, his eyes scanning the scene with something just short of unease.
Then, she shifts the conversation. "Where's Astran? Isn't he supposed to be getting the fires going?"
Solen exhales, accepting the change without argument. "He took a detachment to check the fields to make sure nothing's hiding out there."
They move through the village, watching as guild members break into groups, sweeping through the ruined homes.
"Clear!"
The first call rings out. Another follows from down the street.
"Clear!"
The search moves quickly, voices echoing as teams emerge from buildings, nodding to one another before pressing on. The tension lingers, the weight of caution keeping every movement sharp.
The hours pass as Oblea and Solen move with the hunters, clearing the village with swift efficiency. "Clear!" echoes less often now, but the pace remains steady. Doors open, boots crunch through bloodstained snow, weapons stay drawn.
The village offers no resistance, but it feels no less hostile.
Oblea keeps her eyes sharp, her grip near her blade, the silence pressing down like a held breath.
They push forward, making their way to the far side of the village. The kneeling body remains frozen in place.
Oblea slows, her gaze steady as she takes in the scene again, this time with Solen at her side.
She glances at him, catching the shift in his expression. The hardened exterior he carries cracks just slightly, the weight of the scene pressing into him. His eyes linger on the fallen guard, sadness settling deep in his features.
Without a word, he places a hand over his chest and bows his head, a silent gesture of respect for the man who had died standing.
Then something clicks in Oblea's mind. Her gaze sharpens, flicking between the body and the carnage surrounding it.
"Hold on," she mutters, her voice quiet but edged with suspicion. "Why is this one complete?"
Solen furrows his brows at her, confusion flickering across his face before realization sets in. His expression shifts, brows raising as the thought settles between them.
They both glance around, scanning the area for anything different, anything out of place. The village is the same—ruined, torn apart, bodies left in pieces. But here, near the kneeling guard, something is off.
Oblea steps forward, crouching low as her sharp eyes trace the snow. The familiar marks of the massacre are all around—deep scars where bodies had been dragged, the chaotic mess of violence.
But then, she sees it.
Footprints. Large, clawed, pressing deep into the frozen earth. But unlike the others, these don't weave through the village in search of prey.
These lead outward. Straight through the broken gate, away from the carnage.
And there isn't just one set—there are many, overlapping in a chaotic trail, some heavier, some lighter, all moving in the same direction.
Solen steps closer. His voice is calm, but weighted.
"Outside, Oblea."
She lifts her head, her eyes meeting Solen's for a brief moment before following his gaze past the ruined gate.
Her breath stills as she spots it—far beyond the village, nestled halfway between the open snowfields and the forest's edge.
A mound of gray, brown, and red.
She rises to her feet, narrowing her eyes against the cold wind. It isn't just a pile of debris. It isn't scattered remains like the rest.
Something is there.
Oblea immediately draws her blade, her grip firm as her eyes trace over the details ahead.
Faint wisps of fur-like strands lift in the wind, shifting with the slow drift of air. A thin blanket of snow clings to the mound, its surface undisturbed, as if whatever lay beneath had settled long before the morning light.
"Get a group out here. I'll check it out," she says, already moving, her expression tightening.
Solen lets out a soft whistle, his armor shifting as he moves. The sound of footsteps follows, the hunters falling in behind her.
The presence of others should be reassuring, but Oblea doesn't loosen her grip on her blade.
She stops, outstretching her arm without looking back. "Slowly," she orders, her voice firm but low.
As she moves forward, the mass ahead sharpens in detail. A pile of fur and blood, frozen solid where it lay.
Patches of thick, coarse hair lift and ripple in the wind, while others remain stiff with ice and dried gore. The bodies are tangled together, twisted limbs barely distinguishable beneath layers of frost.
One by one, the others step forward, their expressions shifting as they take in the scene. Some go still, others inhale sharply, eyes widening at the grim reality before them.
Oblea swallows, her voice unsteady.
"It's a mountain of werewolves… at least twelve, maybe fifteen."
A beat of silence follows. Then, one of the hunters hesitates before speaking, his voice low. "What's that humming?"
The group stills, unease pressing in around them. The sound is faint, almost lost beneath the wind. A low vibration, rhythmic, constant.
Solen is the first to move. "Move the bodies slowly. If it's a threat, we eliminate it."
The hunters step forward, pushing past the hesitation. Gloved hands grip frozen limbs, boots press deeper into the snow as they begin shifting the stiffened werewolves.
The bodies, heavy with ice and rigor mortis, take effort to move but little by little, they peel away from the heap.
With every layer they uncover, the humming grows louder.
Almost like a cry.
Oblea's chest tightens. Then she hears it—a wail, thin and weak beneath the weight of the frozen corpses.
Her breath quickens. "FASTER!" she barks, cutting through the tension.
They dig frantically now, urgency overtaking caution. Limbs are shoved aside, frozen fur torn from ice. Then, finally, the source is revealed.
A child, around half a year old, lies deep within the crevice, wailing against the cold.
Yet inside, the space is warm. The blood beneath the infant hasn't frozen, still thick and liquid, clinging to the bundle wrapped around the small body.
It soaks into the fabric, untouched by the biting frost surrounding it.
Oblea moves without thinking. She crouches, wrapping the infant in her winter coat, pulling the small body against her chest. Her eyes widen, disbelief flickering behind them.
She holds the infant tight, the warmth of the small body pressing against her as blood seeps through the fabric, soaking onto her.
It clings to her gloves, her coat—she doesn't mind. Not as she watches the child cry in her arms, its tiny face scrunched in distress, alive despite everything.
The question looms.
How?