The first werewolf reached him, claws wide, jaws foaming. In a heartbeat, Thalos moved—no wasted motion, no sound.
His hand shot up, fingers digging straight into the beast's throat mid-leap.
Crack.
He crushed the windpipe like it was made of wet paper, and with the same hand, flung the massive creature sideways. Its body slammed into one of the half-shifted attackers with such force that bones exploded on impact—both figures spiraling off the rooftop like broken marionettes.
The second wolf was smarter. It went for the legs, low and fast, jaws ready to rip tendons from bone.
Thalos stepped aside with inhuman grace, grabbed it by the scruff mid-lunge, and with a sickening crunch, drove his knee up into its ribcage.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
The sound of at least six ribs shattering echoed through the air. The creature howled—until Thalos twisted its head a full 180 degrees with one hand, silencing it.
He let the limp body drop with a thud.
The remaining men hesitated—but only for a second. They came at him like rabid dogs, screaming, weapons raised.
Thalos vanished—just for a flicker—and when he reappeared, he was already behind one of them.
Thud.
His fist crashed into the man's back. Vertebrae imploded. The body bent unnaturally backward, and he collapsed paralyzed, mouth foaming.
Another swung a glowing sword—enchanted steel meant to pierce anything magical.
Thalos caught the blade between two fingers.
Held it.
Smirked.
Then drove his palm into the attacker's face so hard it caved in the skull like a rotten fruit.
Blood sprayed across the tiles as Thalos turned to the others, moving faster than any eye could follow. His hand slammed into a man's chest—straight through flesh and bone. He pulled out a still-beating heart and tossed it aside like garbage.
"Next," he said calmly, eyes scanning the crowd like he was picking produce at the market.
A man with a glowing spear jabbed at him from behind. Thalos didn't turn—he kicked backward.
Crunch.
The man's leg bent the wrong way. He screamed—only to be silenced as Thalos turned and backhanded him with enough force to send his head spinning off his body like a twisted top.
Now the monstrous werewolves circled him—five in total, snarling, eyes gleaming with hate. They launched together in fury.
For a second, it looked like they might overwhelm him.
Then chaos erupted.
Thalos grabbed one by the jaw and the back of the neck and ripped its head clean off.
Another he punched through, his arm going out the other side of the beast's torso, coated in blood and gore. He used the corpse as a weapon, swinging it into the next one, bones shattering on contact.
The fourth landed a slash on his chest—his shirt tore, skin barely marked.
Thalos turned, eyes now molten gold and glowing like the sun itself.
With a snarl of amusement, he grabbed the creature by the snout and the tail—and tore it in half. Right down the spine. A waterfall of gore-drenched the floor.
The last wolf backed away, whimpering, trembling in its monstrous form.
Thalos tilted his head.
"Go ahead. Run."
The wolf bolted—only to make it three steps before Thalos appeared in front of it, hand plunging through its eye socket and into its skull.
He let the twitching body fall, shaking blood from his fingers like it was water.
Silence.
Only Lycian remained untouched, leaning casually in the shadows, adjusting his fake glasses with a slow exhale.
Thalos rolled his neck. Bones popped.
"I said I was bored," he muttered, gaze still on the mangled corpses around him. "Not desperate."
He looked up at the night sky again, completely calm.
"Send Luke my regards," he added, "Tell him next time, I want a challenge."
Lycian stepped out into the moonlight, lips twitching. "Should I also tell him how many bodies you broke this time, Your Majesty?"
"Go ahead." Thalos leaped off the roof, and vanished into the dark, leaving nothing but the reek of blood.
And below, the blood dripped down the edges of the rooftop—painting the stone red beneath the full moon's gaze.
Lycian sighed as he stepped over a decapitated head that rolled lazily into his path.
He tugged on a pair of black gloves with a quiet snap, adjusting them like a surgeon about to begin.
Lycian pulled a slim vial from his coat and uncorked it. Instantly, the scent of scorched cedar and sulfur punched the air. He tilted it just enough, letting a few drops fall onto the blood-slick tiles. The red began to burn away—hissing—as it evaporated into the night.
He moved methodically.
One by one.
Drop by drop.
The blood vanished in coils of smoke, and he repeated the process—unbothered by torn ligaments brushing against his polished boots or the jawbone resting neatly at his feet like a macabre dog treat.
He stopped by one of the bodies—a half-beast tore clean in half.
Lycian crouched down, tilting his head slightly. His eyes, a pale green behind thin silver frames, flicked over the gnarled body. Then he slipped a scalpel-thin dagger from his coat.
He carved a clean, vertical line down the creature's chest. Ribs split open like rotten fruit, revealing something far worse inside.
"Disgusting," he muttered under his breath. "The old man's experiment's moving faster than expected. Didn't think he'd be churning out half-shifts this stable yet."
He slid the dagger back into its sheath and stood. One glance down, and the corner of his lip curled—not in amusement, but in disdain.
"These things aren't even close to what a Lycan is," he said, flicking more of the cleansing agent onto the corpse. "Wretched imitations. Mangled fur and broken spines pretending they have the blood for it."
He crouched beside the twisted body, nudging its cracked jaw with the toe of his boot.
"Weak jaw structure. Teeth like shattered glass. A real Lycan could crush bone in a single snap. These things gnaw like rodents."
He whispered, "Aetherius."
The bodies littered around ignited in silence, then crumbled into ash.
Lycian lingered there, gaze distant as if some thought had just caught up with him. His brow furrowed. Slowly, he removed his gloves and stared at the smoke curling around his boots.
"…Tomorrow's the royal hunt of the season."
His voice was quiet. More observation than a statement.
The Silva Metuenda. The Forest of Dread. Again.
Every time His Majesty walked into that place, he came back… wrong. Not visibly. But something always shifted beneath the surface.
Darker eyes. Shorter temper. More beast than man.
Lycian sighed, pushing his frames up the bridge of his nose with a gloved finger. Blood smeared the lens.
"Guess I'll be cleaning up a bigger mess tomorrow."
He turned, cloak whispering behind him, leaving nothing but the smell of ash and steel in his wake.
The rooftop was back to its previous pristine state.
———
[A Week Later]
The car stopped, and Lunethra took off her glasses, turning to her daughter just in time to catch her as Sylva hugged her tightly, breathing her in.
"I will miss you… Mom."
Lunethra smiled and kissed the side of her forehead. "I'll miss you too, darling—very much. You know, if I could, I would go with you."
"Yeah," she replied, her voice muffled, her head buried in her mother's shoulder.
Lunethra glanced outside and patted Sylva softly on the back. "Come on, almost everyone's gotten in."
Reluctantly, Sylva pulled away, and Lunethra smiled, tucking a wind-swept lock of hair behind her ear. "Remember—take care of yourself, stay away from that girl as much as possible, protect yourself, eat on time, and call me anytime you're free, okay?"
"Okay." Sylva smiled.
"Come on, let's get your stuff from the back."
The car door opened, and they got out, moving to the boot. Lunethra opened it and watched as Sylva pulled out her gear: a 45L rucksack packed with field notebooks, rainproof maps, a GPS handheld, and trail snacks; a tripod bag strapped with a compact camera trap; a lightweight bat detector case; a rolled sleeping mat clipped to the side; and a waterproof duffel filled with spare clothes, thermal socks, and her data logger.
Sylva adjusted the strap on her rucksack as the university bus idled. Around her, students laughed and wrestled with overstuffed duffel bags, slinging equipment cases and tents into the storage compartments.
"I'll be back soon, and then we can go out. Just you and me."
Lunethra smiled with misty eyes. "I can't wait." She pulled her into a final embrace, tight and trembling. "I love you, baby. Protect yourself, okay?"
"I will," Sylva whispered. "I love you too."
After one last kiss on her mom's forehead, Sylva slung her bag over her shoulder and jogged toward the bus.
Most of the students were already inside—some loudly chatting, others filming content for their field blogs. The supervisor, a stern woman in a field vest, waved urgently.
"Sylva! Let's go! We're leaving now."
"Sorry!" she puffed, climbing the steps before waving one last time to her mother, who had put her sunglasses back on.
From the back, a honeyed voice floated over, "Well, look who finally graces us. Hope you're not this slow in the field—wouldn't want the badgers to outrun you."
Acacia. Of course.
Sylvara didn't miss a step. "If I'm lucky, maybe I'll outrun your grating voice instead."
A few students chuckled. Acacia's smirk stiffened, but Sylvara was already moving on.
Naomi had saved her a seat by the window.
"Hey," Naomi greeted with a soft smile, pulling back her headphones as Sylvara dropped into the seat beside her.
"Hey," Sylvara exhaled, shifting her gear to the footwell. "Thanks for the seat."
Naomi waved casually, already pulling her headphones back over her ears. "It's alright. It's nothing."
…
The bus pulled away from campus and rumbled out of Exeter. The city gave way to rolling green pastures, and the shadows of oaks and hedgerows lengthened across the hills as they drove.
It took just over an hour—about 1 hour and 20 minutes—to reach the edge of Dartmoor National Park, depending on their exact destination within the moors. The farther they drove into the national park, the narrower and more twisting the roads became.
Outside the window, the wild heart of Devon revealed itself: jagged granite tors rising from the horizon, mists pooling low across the heather, and dense woodland unraveling like secrets from the hillsides.
Sylvara pressed her palm to the glass, watching the landscape unfurl—beautiful, timeless, and natural.