I remember the night I became a rogue.

It wasn’t the bite that changed me—it was the choice. The pack surrounded the den: a mother, two cubs, trembling in the snow. The Alpha ordered me to tear out their throats as punishment for crossing borders. I hesitated. Just one second. But it was enough.

Now, three years later, I’m crouched in the skeletal remains of St. Marrow Church, ribs cracked, fur matted with frost and blood. They’re close—I can smell the iron on their claws, hear the synchronized breath of the hunting circle. My vision blurs with fever, but the mark pulses under my skin, hot and alive.

It whispers: Kill them all.

A shadow breaks from the trees—taller than the others. Not here to capture. Here to finish it.

The Alpha steps into the moonlight, jaws parting in a growl that shakes the stones.

This ends tonight. Fight back and unleash the beast within? Surrender and face the pack’s judgment? Or trigger the mark’s full power—and risk becoming something neither man nor wolf?