CROWNED BY CLAWS

The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and pine. The village of Black Hollow lay shrouded in mist, its wooden cottages huddled close together as if seeking warmth against the creeping cold of night. Inside a modest hut on the outskirts, Eamon stirred in his bed, his sleep plagued by the same dream that had haunted him since childhood.

A vast forest stretched before him, ancient and endless. Moonlight filtered through the twisted branches, illuminating the silver fur of a colossal wolf standing atop a jagged rock. The beast's golden eyes locked onto him-piercing, knowing. Then came the howl. It echoed through his bones, rattling the very core of his being, sending a strange longing through his veins.

He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded like war drums, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The dream again. Always the same dream.

Eamon swung his legs off the straw mattress, rubbing his temples as if that could erase the lingering unease curling in his chest. The wooden floor beneath his feet creaked, the only sound in the otherwise silent hut. Outside, the village lay still, save for the occasional flicker of torchlight from the watchmen patrolling the outskirts.

He had never fit in here. The people of Black Hollow were simple folk-hunters, woodcutters, and traders who lived by the cycle of the seasons. Eamon had spent his whole life among them, yet he had never felt like one of them. His senses were too sharp, his instincts too strange. He could smell a storm before it arrived, hear whispers carried on the wind from yards away, and predict the movements of a deer before it bolted. The village elders called it "a gift," but some whispered a different word.

Curse.

A knock at his door startled him. At this hour? Frowning, Eamon grabbed his cloak and opened it cautiously.

Maeve, the village healer, stood on his doorstep, her face pale beneath the moonlight. Strands of silver hair had escaped her tightly bound braid, and her sharp eyes were filled with urgency.

"Come with me," she whispered. "Now."

Eamon hesitated. Maeve was not a woman given to dramatics. If she was alarmed, there was reason to be. He nodded, stepping outside into the cold night air.

They moved swiftly through the village, past darkened homes and shuttered windows. A heavy tension hung over Black Hollow, the kind that made the hairs on Eamon's arms rise. Something was wrong.

"Maeve, what is this about?" he asked.

She didn't answer. Not until they reached the village square, where a small group of villagers had gathered. Torches burned low, casting flickering shadows on the ground. In the center, two men lay dead. Their bodies were twisted, torn apart by something with claws far larger than any bear or wolf found in the surrounding woods.

The stench of blood filled the air.

Eamon swallowed hard. "What did this?"

Maeve's gaze cut to him. "That's what we need to find out."

Jorah, the village headman, stepped forward. His face was grim, his thick brows furrowed. "Tracks lead into the eastern woods. Deep ones. Whatever did this walked on two legs before shifting to four." His eyes lingered on Eamon for a moment too long. "A beast, but not like any we've seen before."

Eamon felt an odd chill crawl up his spine.

"You want me to track it," he said.

Jorah gave a slow nod. "You're the best hunter we have. If anyone can find it, you can."

Eamon clenched his fists. He didn't need to be told why they'd come to him. The villagers had always looked at him differently, as if sensing something unnatural about him. Now, with a monster loose in the woods, their suspicions had sharpened into fear.

Still, he couldn't refuse. He had no proof, but deep in his gut, he knew this attack was connected to him. The dreams. The instincts. The howl in his bones.

With a grim nod, he turned toward the eastern woods.

"I'll find it."

The forest was silent-too silent. No rustling leaves, no night birds calling, no distant howl of wolves. Only the wind whispering through skeletal branches.

Eamon crouched low, examining the tracks illuminated by his lantern's glow. Deep imprints, wider than any normal wolf's, yet with the distinct pattern of a creature walking upright before shifting to all fours. The claw marks in the bark of nearby trees suggested something big. Something powerful.

The scent was familiar.

Not in the way a hunter recognizes the musk of a deer or the scent of damp soil after rain, but something deeper. It stirred a memory he didn't have, an instinct he didn't understand.

Then, he heard it.

A breath.

Low. Close.

Eamon spun just as the figure lunged. A massive shape erupted from the darkness, its form wreathed in shadow. Claws slashed through the air, missing his throat by inches as he stumbled back. His lantern fell, the flame snuffed out against the damp ground.

Golden eyes gleamed in the darkness.

A wolf-no, not a wolf.

A werewolf.

Its form was monstrous, taller than any man, its limbs corded with unnatural muscle, its fur black as midnight. Yet something in its gaze was not mindless. Not beast, not entirely.

Eamon's heart pounded as he reached for the hunting knife at his belt, knowing it would be useless against a creature like this. The beast sniffed the air, then let out a low, rumbling growl.

And then-

It hesitated.

A flicker of recognition crossed its feral eyes.

The same way Eamon felt something familiar in its scent, the beast seemed to sense something in him.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then, suddenly, the werewolf let out a deep, guttural howl-not of attack, but of warning. It turned and vanished into the night, leaving Eamon frozen in place, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

A warning.

Not a predator to prey. Not enemy to enemy.

A warning.

And deep inside, beneath his fear, Eamon felt something stir.

Something ancient.

Something waiting to awaken.