### Chapter Ten – A Name in the Dark ###
(Bryan POV)
Bryan couldn't sleep.
He lay on the lumpy mattress in his cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling where water stains shaped shadows that moved when the headlights from passing cars cut through the blinds. The city outside never slept, but tonight it felt like the noise pressed harder against the glass, sirens, shouts, tires screeching.
His chest rose and fell too quickly, sweat clinging to his skin though the night was cold. Every time he closed his eyes, the same images played again: claws slashing, wolves snarling Prince, his mother screaming, her blood blooming across the floor like a spreading stain.
And then the shadow of the man he hated most, faceless yet undeniable.
Amark.
He sat up, pressing his palms into his eyes. "I'm losing my damn mind."
His reflection in the cracked mirror across the room looked pale, exhausted. But what unsettled him most was the memory of amber burning in those same eyes earlier tonight.
He had always hated werewolves. He had hunted them, killed them, treated them like monsters that had taken his mother and his brother. But what if—what if the monsters weren't just out there?
What if they were inside him?
His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists and stood.
Answers. He needed answers.
The only person who might know more was Pa Clever.
The old man had found him at sixteen, half-starved and half-wild, sleeping in alleys and living off scraps. Clever had taken him in, not out of kindness but because he saw an asset—a boy he could mold into a weapon. Bryan had been his shield, his errand runner, his disposable blade. But Clever knew things about werewolves, about hunters, about bloodlines.
And Bryan was tired of being in the dark.
---
The bar stank of whiskey and sweat when Bryan pushed open the door. Midnight regulars hunched over glasses, the television muttering about politics no one cared about. In the corner booth sat Pa Clever, hunched over a glass of gin, his priest's collar peeking out beneath a coat he always wore.
"Boy," Clever said without looking up, his voice gravel and smoke. "You look like hell."
"Thanks." Bryan slid into the booth across from him. "I need answers."
Clever finally looked at him, one bushy brow arching. "About what?"
"Werewolves." Bryan's voice was sharper than intended. He leaned forward. "The ones we fought tonight… they called me something. Prince. Why?"
Clever chuckled, the sound dry and humorless. "They'll say anything to rattle you. Wolves love their mind games."
"Don't lie to me." Bryan's fist hit the table, rattling the glasses. Heads turned briefly before losing interest. He lowered his voice, teeth clenched. "You know something. I saw it in your eyes just now."
Clever's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Careful, boy. Curiosity kills faster than claws."
Bryan shoved back from the booth, frustration boiling over. "Then maybe claws are better than living blind."
Clever sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Sit down."
Against his better judgment, Bryan sat.
Clever leaned in, his voice dropping low. "There are bloodlines among wolves. Old ones. Names whispered like curses. If they called you Prince, maybe they smelled something. But you? You're no wolf. You're a street rat with a crossbow. Don't go borrowing crowns that'll get your head torn off."
Bryan's pulse hammered. "So you're saying there is something."
"I'm saying drop it before it buries you." Clever drained his gin and waved a dismissive hand. "Now go home. Sleep. You'll be useful to me alive, not dead chasing shadows."
Bryan stood, fury sparking in his chest. He wanted to scream, to demand more, but he knew Clever wouldn't break. Not now. Not like this.
He turned and stalked toward the door.
The night air hit him cold and sharp, his breath fogging in the glow of the streetlamp. His hands still trembled. His thoughts were fire.
If Clever wouldn't tell him, he'd find someone who would.
His mother's scream echoed in his memory again, dragging him back to the night of blood and fire. The night that never left him.
And through it all, one name burned brighter than the rest.
Amark.
The monster. The ghost. The shadow he had sworn to kill.
He didn't know why the wolves had tied his name to that man, but he would find out.
Even if it killed him.
Bryan pulled his jacket tighter and started walking. He didn't notice the pair of glowing silver eyes watching from the rooftop above, tracking every step he took.