The moon hung high in the sky, casting silver light over the dense forest. The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves like a thousand murmuring voices. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a lonely, mournful sound.
The Hunters moved like shadows.
Dressed in dark leathers reinforced with silver, they were predators of the supernatural world. Their blades were laced with wolfsbane, their arrows tipped with silver, and their hearts devoid of mercy.
At their head rode Commander Gareth Blackthorn, a man who had made a name for himself in slaughtering entire werewolf packs without hesitation. His black stallion snorted as he pulled back on the reins, scanning the land before them. Beside him, Elena Frost, his second-in-command, kept pace, her ice-blue eyes sharp as a hawk's.
The moonlight glinted off the rolled parchment in Gareth's hands. A royal decree, sealed with the sigil of Luna Catherine herself.
He unrolled it once more, though he had already memorized the words.
To the esteemed Hunters,
A rogue wolf of dangerous power roams free. She is a threat to the balance of our world, a creature blessed with unnatural gifts. She must be found before she unleashes destruction upon us all. Capture her alive and deliver her to us before the Grand Ball.
Your reward will be greater than you can imagine.
Gareth smirked. "A rogue wolf with unnatural power?" He glanced at Elena. "Sounds like the usual fearmongering from the highborns."
Elena arched a brow. "Perhaps. But the pay is good."
"Very good," he agreed, folding the parchment.
The Hunters had no love for the werewolf packs. They despised them—these beasts who thought themselves superior, who ruled over human lands with their unnatural strength and ancient bloodlines. But this was not just a hunt for sport. This was business.
And business was lucrative.
Elena slowed her horse, raising a gloved hand. "Tracks," she murmured.
The group halted.
On the damp earth, partially hidden beneath fallen leaves, were the faint impressions of bare feet—small, delicate, but swift.
"Fresh," one of the trackers muttered.
Elena knelt, brushing her fingers against the ground. "She's running."
Gareth's smirk widened. "Good. Let's give her something to run from."
With a sharp whistle, he signaled his men forward. The Hunters fanned out, their torches flickering like fireflies in the night.