The forest floor was a quagmire of mud and gore, the scent of damp earth and spilled blood hanging heavy in the air. Kaelen, Alpha of the Shadow Fang pack, huddled against the cold, rough stone of a fae fortress, his body a coiled spring of tension. The low, guttural cries of his fallen pack brothers still echoed in his ears—a grim song of his failure.
They had come to this wretched place, a small raiding party seeking vengeance for the lives stolen from their fields and homes. But the fae were not the simple-minded brutes they appeared to be. They were a twisted paradox of beauty and horror. Their skin shimmered in shades of green and red, their forms radiating an ethereal glow that entranced the eye. Yet beneath the illusion, their true faces were gnarled and wicked, their eyes nothing more than beads of obsidian holding only malice.
Kaelen watched as a fae warrior with iridescent wings plunged a clawed hand into the chest of his last scout, his own heart clenching in a vice-like grip. He was the only one left. Tears streaked down his muddy face, leaving a clean trail through the dirt as he silently wept for his fallen friends.
Hours later, Kaelen stumbled back into his pack's territory, his body a roadmap of fresh cuts and old scars infused with fae magic that slowed his natural healing ability. His fur was matted with blood and mud, his long brown hair tangled and shaggy. The soft green of his eyes had hardened into chips of emerald, reflecting the deep-seated anger that simmered beneath his exhaustion. He looked upon his people, their faces gaunt with loss, and a profound despair washed over him.
The fae were winning. The Shadow Fang pack, once content cultivators of the land, was slowly being erased. They needed healers. Every pack had to defend its territory, sending envoys to each other whenever possible, but they were stretched too thin. At this rate, they needed healers more than warriors.
"I go to the Ghost Moon pack," he rasped, his voice raw. "They dwell at the edge of our world, but they hold the healing arts better than any in these lands." The Shadow Fang pack needed their help because even those who didn't fall in battle would be killed later by fae poison, slowly and painfully. There was nothing their natural healing ability could do to fix it.
The journey to the Ghost Moon territory was an endless march. When he finally arrived, Kaelen was struck by the sight before him. The pack's settlement was pristine, the wolves within its borders living lives of easy leisure. They were clean and well-fed, their coats gleaming under the pale moon. A wave of bitterness rose in Kaelen's throat. He was stained with the blood of his kin, while these wolves lived in a state of oblivious peace. He wore burlap rags stitched together by his pack members—the cloth barely holding itself together—to hide his body from sight.
The rough fabric itched his wounds, which refused to heal, as he looked at the gleaming white armor of the wolves so deep in their lands that the fae never got close enough to attack.
He approached their Alpha, a towering figure with a coat as white as fresh snow. Kaelen, the leader of his own pack, knelt before him, his head bowed in supplication. "My pack is dying," he begged, his voice cracking with emotion. "We have lost our last healer. We seek your aid. We need healers." Though his position looked hopeless, his voice was firm, filled with the vigor of a soldier who was not yet done.
The Ghost Moon Alpha turned to his High Priestess, a woman with a calm, unnerving serenity. Her eyes, the color of a winter sky, met Kaelen's. "We must supplicate ourselves to Nyx, our goddess, for her counsel," she said, her voice a mere whisper of wind. "We will await her answer." She knew they couldn't help everyone. Healers weren't infinite, and she had to think of preserving what they could. Their culture and their devotion to their goddess wasn't something that should be lost in the tides of war. If she could, she would help every last Alpha who came to their pack, bodies broken and beaten, stinking of blood that was not their own, bending the knee as if the Ghost Moon pack were their saviors. But she couldn't offer what they didn't have—what they weren't willing to lose.
Kaelen's rage, held in check for so long, finally broke free. "The goddess isn't here! She will not answer! Yet surely she would wish for us to endure!" he roared, his voice echoing off the surrounding rock. "You speak of piety while my people bleed!" He had no respect for those who could hide in the deepest parts of their land as if the war would never find them.
The High Priestess simply shook her head. "None of us are worthy to speak for the goddess. We will await her answer." She believed with her entire being that Nyx would not let their people fall. They had been created by her, molded in the shape of that which she loved the most. She would not let her creation be dismantled, not until she herself stepped back onto this earthly plane, ready to bring them all back home to the fields of Nyx so they may roam free, and forever at peace.
The calm dismissal was the final cut. "You are a fool!" Kaelen seethed, his words a hiss of pure fury. "Think you that all who perish are so lucky to meet the goddess? What of their kin? Their pups? The ones they abandon to sorrow?" He wasn't just speaking of his pack. He was speaking of himself. He had lost his two pups to the war and couldn't even retrieve their bodies; they had become puppets of joy for the fae. And she spoke of his loss like it was a divine blessing.
"There is no shame in death," she replied, a faint, self-satisfied smile on her lips. "All who perish are lucky to meet the goddess." They all did their best to show praise and loyalty to their goddess. What could be a higher gift than being able to meet her and show her the greatness of the gifts they had left for her on this mortal plane that she loved so much?
Something inside Kaelen snapped. The world around him twisted and warped, his vision blurring with a blinding madness. The pain of loss, the fear for his pack, the sheer injustice of their refusal—it all funneled into a singular, devastating moment. In his human form, his mind pushed to the brink of primal insanity, he tapped into an unknown power.
The world seemed to slow, and he moved with a speed that defied all reason. He was there, and then he was gone, a blur of motion. He had become a shadow himself.
The Ghost Moon pack howled in shock and terror as Kaelen became a whirlwind of vengeance. He struck with the speed of a serpent, his hands a blur as he tore through their ranks. He slaughtered eight members of the High Priestess's clan, the very healers his pack so desperately needed. His mind was a maelstrom of bloodlust, his every movement a testament to his shattered sanity. The Ghost Moon wolves scrambled to stop him, but they couldn't even see him, let alone catch him. It was a devastation and a perversion of the goddess's creation. He had made himself a monster on the goddess's most sacred lands.
Satisfied, Kaelen slipped away, leaving behind a scene of unmitigated slaughter. He returned to his pack, the madness clinging to him like a second skin. When he arrived, he finally collapsed, the rage draining from him and leaving a profound emptiness in its wake. But he had found a new way.
He taught his pack members the new ability, the way to push their minds to the edge of human reason, to become shadows themselves. It was the only way to turn the tide of war, to endure. Kaelen had sacrificed his humanity, his sanity, for his pack's survival. In the end, his crimes were forgiven, and his pack was saved. But the cost was immense. The more he used his ability, the more of himself he lost. By the time the Fae Wars were over, he had lost his mind—a final sacrifice for his people. And with it, a new origin was born for the Shadow Fang pack, a legacy forged in blood and madness.
Authors note:
I'm glad you're enjoying the history of these packs, where power is born not just from strength, but from profound sacrifice. It's been a fascinating journey to explore these side stories, and it feels like they are becoming a world of their own. This chapter, in particular, has me thinking about a prequel, possibly set during the War of 1502.
As always, thank you for all the votes, comments, and power stones! Your support means the world to me.😁