The heat of the forge was a comfort to Jackson West, a steady, predictable thing that demanded respect but offered no judgment. In the small, smoke-stained hamlet of Oakhaven, far from the warring clans, he and his twin, Jason, were just two unusually robust, quiet blacksmiths. They were a necessary service, not a spectacle.
Jackson drove the heavy iron hammer down on the glowing billet, the thunk vibrating up his arms. The rhythm was a meditation, a way to focus the animal energy perpetually humming beneath his ribs. He was Wolf on his father's side, though he rarely let the strength show. Today, the suppression was difficult. The air was thick with humidity, and the metallic scent of copper, usually a faint, atmospheric detail, was sharp and invasive. It tasted like blood on his tongue, a reminder of the latent power he tried so desperately to cage.
"Too much force, brother."
Jason West, all lean elegance and quick fingers, did not look up from the leather scabbard he was stitching. He spoke the rebuke without pause, his voice a low, dry murmur that rarely carried beyond the forge walls. Jason was Fox, and his senses were tuned to the ripple of magic, not the brute force of a hammer. He felt the latent energy that Jackson was trying to mask with physical effort.
Focus, Jackson. Don't waste the strength.
Jackson wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a hand scarred by a lifetime of minor burns. "Just finishing the head. That ploughshare has to last the winter."
"It has to last the winter without drawing attention," Jason corrected, tapping the edge of the anvil with a sliver of obsidian. "Your pulse is rattling the hearth stones. Do you want the whole village to think we've found a way to heat the forge with the wind, or do you want them to keep believing the lie?"
The Lie. That was the most important rule of their normal life: they were human, they were ordinary, and their survival was predicated on Allegiance to the rules of the quiet world. Do not stand out. Do not use what you are. Do not risk the fragile peace.
Jackson let his grip loosen, forcing the raw Wolf strength to recede into the marrow. The muscles along his back tightened in protest, but he took a slow, deep breath. He didn't just believe the Lie; he needed it. His Wolf side felt like a constant threat, a brutal impulse that needed a strict moral framework to contain. The rules protect us from ourselves.
The ambient sound of Oakhaven was usually a soothing mix of mundane noises—the clatter of the mill wheel, the bleating of sheep, the murmur of the river. But today, beneath it all, was the distant, resonant howl. Not a true pack cry, just a low, prolonged moan that resonated through the wet earth. It was the sound of the wild, and it was a direct, irritating challenge to the Lie.
"The howl is closer than it was a moon ago," Jackson muttered, the noise stirring the primal anger he fought. "They're pushing the border."
"Let them," Jason said, his silver needle flashing as he threaded the tough leather. "They are their chaos. We deal with ours. The only thing that matters is the blade."
Jason meant the blade he was currently crafting, a short, dark hunting knife commissioned by the chieftain. But the term held a double meaning. They were the sovereign blade, suspended between the warring species, a dangerous tool that had to remain sheathed.
Jackson watched Jason work. Jason's hands moved with a preternatural grace, the Werefox agility turning the mundane act of stitching into a silent art. But Jason's control was a different beast entirely. His minor elemental magic (the Fox side) was often channeled into subtle things: the perfect temperature of the steel, the slight misdirection of a villager's eye. Jason believed in a more fluid, amoral survival: Accepting all established good and evil as long as it kept them alive. Use the chaos; don't fight it.
A woman named Lyra, the baker's wife, came to the doorway, holding a basket of fresh bread. "Master West? Is the axe-head ready? My husband needs it for the woods this afternoon."
Jackson, still mentally grappling with the primal howl and the copper scent of blood, was about to speak, but Jason was faster. He offered a polite, practiced smile—just the right amount of deference, just the right amount of fatigue—the perfect human mask.
"Nearly, Lyra. Jackson here is just setting the final temper. A tool like this, built to last a generation, cannot be rushed. It requires patience." Jason's voice had a soft, almost persuasive quality, subtly using his Fox influence to soothe the woman's impatience.
Lyra blushed faintly, her worries melting away. "Of course. We know your work is the finest. We'll wait." She left, the smell of fresh yeast temporarily eclipsing the sharp pine resin and wet earth.
Jackson waited until her footsteps faded. "You didn't have to do that," he grumbled, recognizing the minor manipulation.
"I had to reinforce the Lie," Jason said simply, cutting the thread with a snap of his Fox-sharp fingernail. "Your Wolf presence was too heavy. If you want to keep believing that your survival is found in a moral code—in their laws—then you have to adhere to them completely. No mistakes. No raw power. You forget the weight of the lie, Jackson. It's what keeps them from turning on us."
Jason's words, though cold, were not wrong. Jackson swallowed the argument, turning back to the forge. He knew his brother's strategy of Acceptance—playing the game, using their powers subtly—was effective, but it chafed at Jackson's need for strict, ordered honesty. He needed to believe in the Lie that the rules would save them, even if that meant denying his own powerful existence.
He forced his mind back to the metal, channeling his energy into the iron, not against it. The ploughshare rang true, the vibrations settling immediately back into the anvil. Normal. Orderly. Safe.
We are safe here. We are masters of our destiny, and our destiny is to remain hidden.
A harsh, grating sound ripped through the quiet air—not the distant howl of the pack, but the crunch of heavy boots on loose gravel, followed by a shouted command in a language that was not local. It was the sound of iron meeting human force.
The peaceful façade of Oakhaven shattered.
Before Jackson could move, Jason's head snapped up. His eyes, normally brown and mild, flashed gold—the telltale sign of Fox senses going into overload. "Not hunters," Jason breathed, shoving his stitching kit under a workbench. "Too organized. And their scent… it's mixed. Copper and fear."
Jackson felt the familiar rush of the Wolf side, the desire to meet the threat head-on. He grasped the heavy hammer, his knuckles white. "Stay behind me. We use just enough to run."
"No," Jason hissed, his voice taut with urgency. "Their quarry isn't the villagers. They've found the Mentor."
A small scroll, written in the cramped, elegant hand of the sage who had helped hide them since childhood, was pinned to the doorpost with a crude spike. It was a single word, scribbled in desperation: Run.
The lie had just been revoked.