Face To Face

The moon had barely sunk beneath the horizon when Derek stood at the edge of the forest, the air damp with fog and tension. The witch's map burned softly in his hand, the ink glowing like veins of molten gold as it shifted and twitched, revealing the route through the Darkwood. This wasn’t any ordinary forest. The trees here didn’t whisper like normal woods—they growled, creaked with malice, and breathed like something alive.

Behind him, his elite guard shifted in silence. These weren’t ordinary wolves. They were born fighters, battle-hardened warriors who had served Derek since before he became Alpha. They wore the marks of war on their bodies and carried the scent of blood and loyalty. They didn't need a rallying speech. Just one look at their Alpha was enough.

"We move in formation," Derek said, his voice low, clipped. "Stay sharp. The rogues won't wait for a fair fight."

They nodded, shifting slightly as claws extended and fur bristled. In a blink, half of them had shifted into their wolf forms, massive and silent, blending into the morning mist like shadows.

The map pulsed in Derek’s hand, tugging his instincts forward. He tucked it into the satchel tied at his belt and shifted, bones cracking and reshaping until a massive black wolf stood in place of the man. With a sharp growl, he signaled the start.

They moved.

The forest swallowed them whole. Vines curled like fingers around their limbs, branches clawed at their fur. They leapt over gnarled roots and ducked beneath drooping limbs. Strange sounds echoed through the trees—not just birds or wind, but growls that didn’t belong, whispers that weren’t human.

A rustle up ahead. The wolves froze. Derek raised his head, scenting the air. The wind shifted, carrying the stench of blood and rot. Rogues. Watching.

They moved faster.

Twice, traps nearly took down the youngest of their group. Hidden spike pits and snares enchanted with wolfsbane lined the path. But Derek, even in wolf form, was alert. A low growl here, a bark there, and his wolves avoided disaster.

When the trees finally thinned, the mansion rose before them like a ghost from another world. Covered in moss and ivy, its windows glared like eyes, empty and cold. Yet inside, there was movement. Life. Danger.

The wind carried Diva’s scent. Faint, but real.

Derek shifted back into human form. His wolves followed suit, standing bare-chested and ready.

"They're in there," he said, nodding at the building. "And they know we're coming."

Before the words fully left his mouth, the first wave of rogues lunged out of the shadows.

Snarls erupted. Teeth tore into flesh.

The guards didn’t hesitate. Swords drawn, claws out, they met the rogues head-on.

It was chaos.

Derek spun to meet a rogue that charged at him from the right, slamming into the other wolf with enough force to send them both crashing to the ground. He rolled, gripped the rogue by the throat, and snapped it with a clean twist. Another came at him from behind, but he ducked low, sweeping his leg and catching the rogue off-balance before plunging a silver blade into his gut.

To his left, Toren—his Beta and oldest friend—let out a furious howl as he clashed with two rogues, his blade flashing in the morning light. Blood sprayed the air. Another wolf yelped, thrown across the clearing.

Derek turned in time to see a rogue pounce toward one of the younger guards. He lunged, tackling the attacker midair, and they rolled into the dirt, claws slashing. He pinned the rogue, and without hesitation, sank his claws into its chest.

More were coming.

They just kept coming.

For every one they brought down, two more seemed to emerge from the trees.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a siege.

But Derek refused to fall back. He roared, his voice part-wolf, part-man, and surged forward, tearing through the thick of the rogues. His guards followed, pushing through like a battering ram.

Bodies littered the forest floor. Blood soaked into the earth. Still they moved.

By the time they reached the gates of the mansion, half their clothes were torn, their bodies scratched and bleeding—but they stood.

Derek looked back. "This isn't where we stop."

They entered.

The mansion was worse inside. Dark halls lined with peeling wallpaper and old portraits whose eyes seemed to follow them. The scent of rot and old magic clung to the air.

They moved room by room, weapons raised.

In one room, they found a rogue trying to flee through a broken window. Derek pulled him back by the scruff and slammed him into the wall.

"Where is she?" he snarled, voice rough with fury.

The rogue spit blood. "Upstairs. But he won't let her go. He said you'd come. He's waiting."

Derek slit his throat.

Up the grand staircase they went, each step heavy, haunted. The silence grew thicker. They reached a long corridor, doors on either side.

Then Derek paused.

There—on the floor.

A torn piece of fabric. Blue. He picked it up, brought it to his nose.

Diva.

His hands shook.

He turned to the others. "She's close."

A growl vibrated through the walls.

It wasn’t human. It wasn’t rogue.

It was something ancient.

And it was waiting.

Derek drew his blade. "Get ready. This isn't over."

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