The gates of the Obsidian Throne groaned open at first light.
Mist clung low to the ground, curling around the horses' hooves like smoke.
Lucas and I rode side by side in silence, cloaked in black, blending into the morning mist.
We made good time across the open fields.
By midday, the land changed.
The road narrowed, hemmed in by thick, gnarled woods.
And then —
Ahead of us —
Werewolves.
They stepped out from the trees, blocking the path.
At least fifteen of them.
Their eyes glinted yellow in the dim light, their bodies shifting into half-wolf forms — a mixture of fur, claws, and savage smiles.
Bandits.
Or worse.
Probably waiting for prey softer than us.
They picked wrong.
Lucas and I dismounted immediately.
As our boots hit the ground, we shifted.
Bones cracked and reformed.
Muscles rippled under fur.
Fangs burst free from our jaws.
I landed hard on all fours, my dark fur bristling, a growl ripping from deep in my chest.
