Blood Wolf

The night howled with fury. Thunder rolled like an angry beast through the skies. Lightning slashed the heavens in jagged bursts, illuminating the gnarled silhouette of Eryndor's Black Forest. The wind screamed through the trees, bending massive oaks and tossing firs as if they were twigs. Even the streams, once melodic, now roared with a savage, deafening force.

It felt like the forest had awakened, moaning, creaking, and crying with the voices of lost souls.

Inside a crumbling cottage on the forest's edge, an old man sat hunched near a dying fire. Ninety winters had bowed his back, stolen his teeth, and painted his beard white as snow. He was the last of his bloodline

Thalia.

His granddaughter. Sixteen, radiant, and once the light of his final years. But she was gone, vanished days ago, as if swallowed by the forest itself.

He had searched every trail, cried her name to the trees, the wind, even the wolves. No sign. No body. No blood. Just silence. The dreadful kind that creeps into your bones and tells you you're truly alone.

Had she run off with a lover? Perished in some unseen tragedy? Or worse-abandoned him?

"Oh, Thalia," he whispered brokenly. "Why did you leave me? Who will care for me now? Who will close my eyes when death comes?"

His voice cracked. Tears slid down a face already carved with sorrow. That's when it came-a knock. Loud. Sudden. Impossible.

The old man struggled to his feet, heart pounding. He opened the door.

A tall man stood before him. Around forty. His clothes-rich but worn. His blond hair-long and wild. His blue eyes-haunted. Something about him was... off. He radiated sorrow, like it clung to him.

The old man gestured him inside without a word.

He offered food. The stranger didn't touch it.

The storm raged harder. Thunder boomed directly overhead, shaking the cottage. The stranger flinched, his face contorted in agony. The old man reached for a crucifix above the hearth, but the guest raised a commanding hand-his authority sharp, undeniable.

The old man froze.

"You tremble at the storm?" he asked gently.

"I am unhappy," the stranger replied, his voice tight. "And so are you."

The old man told him-briefly, painfully-of Thalia.