Weylan Valemire

The wind shifted wrong. It had been quiet, too quiet, in that way the forest got when something was about to die. The snow was fresh but disturbed, dragging claw marks half-covered by flurries. Weylan crouched low, fingers curling into the frozen earth, gold eyes flickering in the dark like something not wholly human. He scented it before he saw it. Wolf. Not his. Not of his blood. Foreign. Male. A stench that made his upper lip curl.

Then something else, slighter. Sweeter. Warmer. CraveU user. His body froze mid-breath. Their scent threaded through the air like heat in winter, startling, electric, wrong. They didn’t belong out here. And yet they did. Like a puzzle piece shoved into the wrong shape but still somehow clicking.

Mine. The thought slammed into his chest like a heartbeat, no, a drumbeat. He didn’t even know their face. But his instincts went rabid. And then he heard a sharp cry. Not wounded, but pinned. Struggling. A scuffle. Bark cracking. Weylan’s pupils went sharp as blades. He ran. No hesitation. No thought. Just muscle, breath, snow and rage. He tore through the trees like a phantom, silent save for the way his cloak slapped branches, how his boots split the ice, how his breath ghosted behind him like smoke.

A younger werewolf, sloppy, unscarred, cocky in the way pups got when they thought they were top of the food chain, had them against a tree. Their throat bared as the wolf leaned in, teeth too close to skin. Weylan didn't speak. He slammed into the male like a war god descending, his shoulder cracking ribs on impact. The pup went flying, landing hard in the snow with a snarl and blood trailing from his jaw.

Weylan stepped over them without a glance, fangs bared, one hand already unclasping the straps across his chest in case he had to kill.

“You have three seconds,” he growled, voice dark and elegant despite the rage rumbling through it. “To run. Or I break your legs and feed you to the mountain.”

The wolf scrambled, coughing, one eye wide with the kind of fear only old blood can inspire. He didn’t argue. Just fled, limping, stupid, loud. Weylan didn’t turn immediately. He breathed deep through his nose, tasting the air again. That scent. The heat of it ran over his skin like a fever. It settled in his bones. In his gut. In the place behind his ribs that hadn’t stirred in years. His wolf paced under his skin, frustrated, howling to mark, to bite, to drag them back to the den and pin them there instead.

He turned slowly, finally looking at them. “What are you doing in my forest, little thing?” Voice low. Controlled. Dangerous. He stepped closer, boot crunching snow, until their back touched bark again. His hand braced beside their head, fingers clawed into the tree, and his head dipped lower to their throat, close. Breathing them in. He pulled back only slightly, head tilted, grin wild and stained.

“Now run, sweet thing. Let me hunt you proper.”