I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
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The forest seemed to hold its breath, its shadowed depths caught in the harsh, unblinking glare of his car's headlights. The trees rose like silent sentinels, their twisted branches tangled overhead, dripping with rain and darkness. The light carved the gloom into pale fragments, revealing trunks slick with moisture and undergrowth that trembled beneath the weight of falling leaves. It was a mournful sight—like the woods themselves were watching, aware of the stillness that had fallen here, and grieving for it.
Chris Argent stood at the edge of the wreckage, boots grinding on shattered glass scattered across the damp earth. Wet leaves clung to the soles, their edges curling and blackening. Through the thin scrim of mist, the car lay mangled against a tree that had withstood the impact without shifting an inch. Steel was folded in on itself, warped and crushed as though some unseen hand had crumpled it like paper. The windshield bore a sprawling web of cracks, each one catching the headlights with a faint glint, the fractured pattern spreading outward from the point of devastation.
Inside the wreck, two of his hunters sat slumped forward, one's head bowed in a posture that, if not for the absence of breath, might have been mistaken for sleep. There was no movement, no sound, no defiance in death—only the quiet stillness of men who would not rise again.
Chris did not speak, did not curse, did not allow his expression to falter. He simply stared at them, letting the silence weigh on him. Somewhere, miles away, the sheriff's people remained oblivious to what had happened here. That wasn't luck. Chris had disabled the GPS tracker on the hunters' vehicle before tracing their location himself. He had been waiting, expecting them to deliver the boy—Isaac Lahey—bound and subdued. Their failure to appear had been his first warning; this wreck was the second, and it told him everything.
He stepped forward and opened the driver's door. The cold night air made room for a heavier presence—the sharp tang of blood, the bitter trace of gun oil, and the acrid stench of burned rubber. The steering wheel was twisted, bent nearly out of shape. A dart rifle lay broken in the passenger's lap, its stock snapped down the middle. Across the seats and dashboard were marks—deep, deliberate tears cutting through fabric, foam, and plastic alike. The dashboard's paneling hung in jagged shreds, clawed open by something powerful and unrelenting.
Chris didn't need time to think. He recognized the pattern.
Werewolf.
Leaning in, he examined what remained. Tufts of coarse fur clung to seams alongside splashes of dried blood. The claw gouges in the synthetic leather gleamed faintly in the beam of his flashlight. It wasn't guesswork—it was evidence, undeniable and damning.
He straightened slowly, his breath curling into the cool air, mist dissipating in the drifting wind. This was no accident. Isaac Lahey had unleashed himself here. Whether born of panic, provocation, or choice, the outcome was the same. The boy had killed two men—two hunters, trained under Chris's family, entrusted with his command.
For a long moment, the forest filled the silence with faint, ghostly movements: the whisper of leaves brushing together, the muted drop of rain gathering at the tips of branches. It was as if the woods themselves mourned in quiet solidarity.
Chris shut the driver's door with deliberate care, the sound barely breaking the hush. It was not an act of indifference, but of reverence—not to wake those who could never wake again. Turning away, he crossed the road to his own vehicle, its engine ticking faintly in the night air.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he rested his hands on the wheel. His gaze fixed ahead, unmoving. Though his jaw tightened, his expression remained composed—a perfect mask concealing the tide churning beneath. His thoughts weighed heavy with faces, names, lives tied to him not by chance but by choice. Men whose loyalty had cost them everything. Men with families who would now answer the knock on their door.
He turned the wheel, sending his headlights slicing back onto the road, twin beams cutting through the endless black like cold white blades. The wreck behind him became a fading smear of shadow, swallowed by the forest.
Chris did not look back.
The tires hummed over wet asphalt, carrying him away, his eyes locked on the road before him, his grief buried under the practiced iron of discipline. Yet beneath that armor, another force surged—hot, sharp, unyielding. Anger born not from loss alone, but from the certainty of what must follow.
By the time the road widened toward the main highway, his voice was low and steady, the words meant for no one but himself.
"Isaac," he murmured, almost gently, like a promise whispered to the night. "You will pay for what you have done."
The vehicle rolled forward, the taillights gleaming briefly before vanishing around the bend, fading into the dark like embers lost to the wind.