Wolves Of Berlin The Cursed Hybrid
Then he spurred the horse with a sharp heel, and the hunt began.
The howling hellhounds leaped into the dense forest ahead, their black forms swallowed by ancient trees symbols of Velan’s generational wealth.
The woods were meticulously tended, home to royal game: deer, moose, foxes, rabbits, pheasants. Now they hid, trembling with fright.
Tension vibrated through the air as the horse galloped, moss and leaves scattering beneath its hooves.
I caught the werewolves’ eyes on me lurid, hungry stares. Disdain or approval, I couldn’t tell. They looked ravenous, unsatisfied, and somehow, they frightened me more than Velan ever had.
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