Pale moonlight, like blades of forged ice, pierced through the clouds, mercilessly illuminating the altar square of the Wolf Clan's sacred ground, Silvermoon Valley. The air was thick with the smell of fresh blood, damp earth, and a malice Len had long carved into his bones.
A foot covered in coarse black fur pinned him firmly against the cold, hard stone floor. His cheekbone pressed into the rough ground, sharp gravel digging into his flesh. His nostrils filled with the scent of dust and the wild, bestial odor emanating from the Wolf Clan members around him.
"Lowly filth," came the arrogant voice of the Wolf Clan young master, Ron, carrying the low growl unique to his half-wolf form, grating like stone grinding against stone. "How dare you lay eyes on the Holy Maiden Alvira?"
The foot ground down harder. Len grunted, feeling his skull groan under the pressure. His forced gaze slipped past the muscular, fur-covered legs, towards the figure surrounded and revered at the edge of the altar.
Alvira, Holy Maiden of the Church of Light. Her pristine white robes seemed to emit a soft glow under the bleak moonlight, matching the honey-gold cascade of her hair. Her face was exquisitely beautiful, transcending mortal limits. Now, she slightly furrowed her holy brows, looking towards him. In her eyes was a faint, almost procedural trace of pity, but more than that, a detachment that looked down upon the dust, a haughtiness rooted in bloodline and faith. The Wolf Clan nobles beside her had even more direct gazes, filled with icy disdain, as if looking at a piece of garbage tainted with filth.
Half-breed.
The word didn't need to be spoken aloud; it was etched in the eyes, the subtle expressions, the very air flowing around him.
Len, a hybrid of Wolf Clan and Vampire. Born of a forbidden union, despised by both races.
A metallic, bloody taste rose in his throat, unsure if it was from his bitten cheek or the accumulated humiliation that had nearly solidified in his heart.
This was his original sin. A curse he never chose, yet had to bear with his entire life.
His mother, Alia, was once the revered "Priestess of the Moon" of the Wolf Clan, of pure bloodline, capable of resonating with the moon, possessing powerful healing and prophetic abilities. His father, Camilla, was a "Nightwalker" among the Vampires, an independent explorer of ancient mysteries. A love that should never have been, sprouted amidst a life-and-death pursuit of a common enemy, ultimately brewing an irreparable tragedy.
His mother, refusing to reveal her lover's identity, was branded a traitor, stripped of her honors, and imprisoned until her death. His father, risking a rescue, failed and escaped severely wounded, cementing the crime of "seduction and defilement." And Len, this "child of taboo," after his mother's death from despair, was seen as a symbol of shame by the Wolf Clan. Unable to execute him directly due to ancient laws, he was ultimately abandoned in the desolate borderland between Wolf and Vampire territories, known as the "Eternal Dusk," left to fend for himself.
Miraculously, he survived, as if even Death was reluctant to claim this curse-laden life. But every day of his life was torment. On full moon nights, his Wolf blood yearned to howl and transform, while his Vampire blood craved shadow and tranquility. The two forces clashed wildly within him, bringing agony akin to bones remolding and blood reversing. Yet, he could neither transform like a pureblood Wolf nor elegantly draw power like a Vampire. This earned him the Wolf Clan's contempt as a "useless half-breed who can't even transform." His appearance was a contradictory mix—perhaps with the Wolf Clan's sharp eyes and latent physique, yet his skin was unusually pale, overly sensitive to sunlight, his canines sharp but not perfect fangs—a "deformed half-breed" in the eyes of both races.
The surrounding wolves let out low, bloodthirsty chuckles and howls, cheering their young master's "authority." Ron seemed to relish the feeling of crushing someone underfoot, especially Len—this living stain reminding the Wolf Clan of a disgraceful past.
"See clearly, half-breed," Ron leaned down, his hot, carnivorous breath puffing against Len's ear, filled with malice. "The Holy Maiden's radiance is not for a creature born in darkness, with filthy blood like yours, to gaze upon. You belong rotting in the mud, with the maggots!"
At that moment, on the altar, Alvira slightly turned her gaze away, as if unwilling to let this filthy scene taint her sight for too long. That subtle movement was like the final key, completely unlocking the floodgates of despair and anger in Len's heart. Not because of Ron's trampling and insults; he was used to those. It was this pervasive, bloodline-deep rejection that utterly excluded him from the "normal" world.
A cold fire burned deep in his heart, not the Wolf's wild flame, nor the Vampire's icy chill, but something more silent, more ancient, pulsating faintly amidst the boundless darkness and oppression.
He stopped struggling, made no more sound, just pressed that almost chest-bursting heat of emotion deep into the recesses of his soul, letting it settle, compress, becoming hard as eternal ice.
Ron, finding him completely unresponsive like a dead dog, grew bored. After one last hard grind, he spat and withdrew his foot, turning to approach the altar, adopting a respectful posture to receive the Holy Maiden's inquiries.
The crowd dispersed with the Holy Maiden's movement, the noise fading, leaving Len alone on the cold stone floor. The moonlight remained pale, offering no warmth.
Slowly, mustering all his strength, he pushed himself up. Wiped the blood from his lips, brushed the dust from his clothes. Every movement tugged at the hidden pain within—not just from the beating, but the constant, dull ache from the two eternally warring bloodlines.
He lifted his head, looking towards the cold full moon. His Wolf blood stirred faintly under the moon, yet was firmly imprisoned by his other half. Deep within his heterochromatic pupils, something was quietly changing. No longer pure numbness, nor boiling hatred, but something... born from extreme suppression, cold and resolute.
Someday...
He didn't voice the thought, just let it sink like a seed into the dead, dark lake of his heart.
He stood up, dragging his pained and weary body, step by step, silently leaving the humiliating altar square, heading towards the eternal dusk and desolation that belonged to him.
The moonlight stretched his shadow long and lonely, like a wounded young beast sharpening the claws that would one day tear through all obstacles, even as it licked its wounds.