Blood of the Forgotten

The first thing Azhar felt was pain.

A sharp, dragging throb pulsed through his ribs as he gasped for breath, his body half-buried under a fallen tree. Rainwater soaked his shirt. Mud clung to his skin. He opened his eyes slowly, wincing as the dull gray sky spun above him. The forest was eerily silent—no birds, no wind, no life.

He had no memory of how he got here.

He had no memory of anything at all.

Azhar gritted his teeth and pulled himself out from beneath the tree. His fingers were raw, his knuckles bloody. The muscles in his arms tensed with a power that felt... wrong. Too strong. Too precise. When he stood, he staggered briefly, then caught his balance like a predator regaining its stance.

Something wasn’t right.

His mind was blank, but his body remembered.

He took in the unfamiliar terrain: tall, twisted pine trees stretched to the sky like skeletal fingers, and the ground was littered with claw marks and dried blood—not all of it his. A guttural instinct flared inside him, a warning. He wasn’t alone.

In the distance, a low growl echoed.

Not an animal. Not human. Something in between.

Azhar turned toward the sound, his senses suddenly alive. The scent of wet leaves, scorched bark, and... iron. Blood. It filled his nose like a warning. His heart pounded harder, but it wasn’t fear—it was rage without memory. A beast waking up inside him.

He moved without thinking—quiet, fast, like he’d done it a hundred times before. Every crunch of a twig beneath his boots seemed amplified, every gust of wind against his neck suspicious.

He wasn’t just someone lost in the woods.

He was being hunted.

Or worse—watched.

He reached a ridge and looked down. A clearing spread below, with broken stones in a wide circle—ancient, worn, like an abandoned ritual site. In the center, a pool of rainwater reflected the gray sky, and just beyond it, a figure knelt, gathering something from the earth.

A girl. Young, alert. Her body was tense, coiled like a spring, as if she, too, felt the weight of the forest’s silence.

Azhar took a step forward, but the girl didn’t flinch. She spoke without turning.

“You’re loud for someone trying to sneak up.”

Her voice was calm, low. Confident.

Azhar froze, more surprised by how quickly she sensed him than her actual words.

“I wasn’t trying to sneak,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

The girl stood and turned to face him. Her eyes were dark and sharp, scanning him like a threat assessment. She had a dagger in one hand, the blade still stained with black blood.

“Then you’re either bold... or stupid.”

Azhar didn’t answer. He stepped into the clearing, raising his hands slightly—not in surrender, but to show he wasn’t here to fight.

“I don’t know who I am,” he said simply.

She blinked, watching him for a moment longer, then sheathed the dagger.

“That makes two of us,” she muttered, brushing dirt from her knees.

Azhar stepped closer. “What’s your name?”

“Mia.”

Just that—no last name, no explanation. She started walking past him, unbothered.

Azhar hesitated, then followed. “Mine’s Azhar. I think.”

She didn’t look back. “Doesn’t matter what you think. You either are or you’re not.”

---

They walked together in tense silence.

Azhar tried to focus, to remember—anything. Faces. Places. A home. But there was only fog, shadow, and instinct. He didn’t feel like a man trying to remember. He felt like a weapon waiting to be aimed.

“You’re not human,” Mia said suddenly.

Azhar glanced at her, surprised.

“Neither are you,” he replied.

She nodded, satisfied with his answer.

They made camp in a sheltered hollow just before nightfall. Mia moved with practiced efficiency—setting traps, lighting a small fire, and using her cloak to mask the flames from sight. Azhar watched her closely. She was experienced, tactical.

Survivor.

When the fire crackled low, he finally asked:

“You’ve seen people like me before?”

Mia didn’t look at him. Her eyes were on the treeline, alert.

“Once. A long time ago. He had eyes like yours. Not normal red... something deeper. And he tore through ten men like they were nothing.”

Azhar stared into the flames. “What happened to him?”

“Killed himself before he lost control again.”

Azhar said nothing. A chill ran down his spine.

That night, the dreams came—

Running through the woods under moonlight.

A pack beside him, howling in unity.

Blood on his claws.

A silver-eyed traitor laughing.

A burning tree.

Then—

Darkness.

He woke with a gasp. Mia was already up, sharpening a blade.

“You talk in your sleep,” she said without looking. “Kept saying one name: Beau.”

Azhar frowned. “I don’t know who that is.”

Mia stood and finally faced him. “We’ll find out. But if someone tried to erase you, they did it for a reason. You were dangerous. Probably still are.”

Azhar nodded slowly. His reflection in the pool nearby shimmered—and for a split second, he saw glowing crimson eyes staring back.

Not normal. Not forgotten.

Just buried.

Blood of the Forgotten

The next morning came in thick fog and dead silence.

Azhar walked with Mia through a winding, overgrown trail, the trees above folding together like ribs of some ancient, slumbering beast. The mist hung low, curling around their feet and softening their steps. It should’ve felt peaceful.

But Azhar’s instincts were screaming.

He kept glancing at Mia. She moved like a shadow—light on her feet, senses sharp. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was clipped and direct. Efficient. Azhar could tell she didn’t trust him, and frankly, he didn’t blame her.

He didn’t trust himself either.

Every hour that passed brought flashes—splinters of memory. A flash of red eyes. A hand turning to claws. Screams in the dark. Each time, his head ached, and his heartbeat quickened.

It was like something inside him was waiting. Watching.

They crossed a narrow river at mid-morning. Mia moved ahead and leapt from stone to stone without hesitation. Azhar followed, but halfway across, his foot slipped on slick rock, and he fell—only just catching himself with inhuman reflexes.

His hand gripped the edge with enough force to crack stone.

Mia had turned around instantly, crouched in a ready stance. Her hand was already on her dagger, watching him—not with concern, but calculation.

Azhar pulled himself up and looked down at the broken stone beneath his fingers.

“You saw that?” he asked.

Mia gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

They kept walking, this time in silence that felt heavier.

---

By midday, they reached a ridge. Below was a clearing where a group of abandoned structures stood crumbling under vines and moss. It might’ve once been a village—but now it looked forgotten by time and memory.

Mia knelt near the edge of the ridge and pulled out a spyglass. Azhar crouched beside her.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“Outpost ruins. A scouting village. Used to belong to the Old Packs—before everything went to hell.”

“Old Packs?”

Mia glanced at him. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“Not a name. Not a face.”

She paused. “Then here’s the short version: there used to be order among werewolves. Clans, territories, codes. Alphas kept the balance. Packs kept each other in check. Until it fell apart.”

“What happened?”

“You did.”

Azhar stiffened. Mia noticed.

“I don’t mean you personally. I mean your kind. Alphas with too much power. When one of them went rogue... it started a war. One pack turned on another. The old system crumbled. Most of us were hunted to near extinction—by humans and wolves alike.”

Azhar’s throat felt dry. “And what about the rogue Alpha? The one who caused it all?”

“They say he disappeared. Or died. But his name still haunts the whispers.”

Azhar felt a strange pull in his chest. Like a string tightening. He didn’t ask the next question.

He already knew what she would say.

---

They entered the ruined village in cautious silence.

Vines strangled collapsed walls. Broken tiles crunched beneath their boots. Mia moved through the place like she’d been here before. Azhar followed, drawn to a central structure—an old temple or gathering hall.

Inside, everything was blackened from fire. But in the center of the room stood a stone altar—charred but intact. Symbols were carved into its sides. Old glyphs that pulsed faintly as Azhar approached.

He ran his fingers along one—then jerked back.

A spark. A flash.

Wolves. A circle. Blood on stone. His voice commanding them.

Then flames. Screams. A golden-eyed figure laughing.

“Crimson Alpha... you trusted the wrong ones.”

Azhar stumbled back, breath heavy.

Mia caught his arm. “What did you see?”

“My pack. A fire. A betrayal.” He gritted his teeth. “And a name. Crimson Alpha.”

Mia’s grip tightened slightly. Her voice dropped.

“You were part of the Crimson Howl.”

Azhar looked up at her. “You know them?”

“Only from stories. Legends. They were the most feared and respected pack in existence. Some worshipped them. Others hated them. People say the Crimson Alpha led them—until he disappeared. The night everything burned.”

Azhar stared at the altar again. “I think... that was me.”

---

Suddenly, Mia froze. She lifted her head.

“We’re not alone.”

Azhar tensed.

Then, a low growl echoed through the hall. Shadows moved.

Three figures stepped out from the broken door—tall, armored, faces half-covered in masks of bone. Their eyes glowed silver-blue. They didn’t smell human.

Mia (whispering): “Wolveslayers. Enhanced hunters. They track rogue shifters for coin. Someone tipped them off.”

The lead hunter pointed at Azhar.

“Target confirmed. Crimson signature detected. Kill on sight.”

Azhar’s claws slid from his fingers before he even gave the command.

Mia flipped her dagger into her hand.

The room erupted.

The first Wolveslayer lunged—Azhar caught him mid-air and slammed him into the altar with a crunch of shattered ribs. Another slashed at Mia—she ducked, drove her blade up through his chest, and twisted.

The third raised a silver-bolt crossbow and fired—Azhar dove in front of Mia, the bolt grazing his side.

Pain flared—but he didn’t fall.

He growled low, eyes flashing crimson, and charged.

The hunter barely screamed before Azhar’s claws tore through his chest.

---

The fight was over in seconds.

The silence returned.

Azhar stood, covered in blood, chest heaving.

Mia wiped her blade clean on her cloak. “They weren’t expecting both of us.”

“They said something. ‘Crimson signature.’” Azhar looked at the corpses. “They knew what I was.”

Mia met his gaze. “Someone wants you dead before you remember too much.”

Azhar looked down at his clawed hands, then back at the altar.

“Then we’re running out of time.”

Blood of the Forgotten

The forest was colder now.

Night had fallen, thick with silence, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant whisper of water. Mia led Azhar deeper into the woods, away from the ruined village, away from the bodies they’d left behind.

Neither of them spoke.

Azhar’s wounds had already begun to close. The graze from the silver bolt itched like fire—but even that pain faded faster than it should have. That truth gnawed at him: his body knew what he was before his mind did.

They stopped at the edge of a narrow ravine. A stream ran through it, silvered by moonlight. Mia crouched, scooping water with her hands to wash the blood from her face.

Azhar stood behind her, watching the water, the trees, the shadows.

“They said someone tipped them off,” he murmured. “You think someone’s tracking us?”

“Someone already is,” Mia replied, not looking at him. “We’re just not sure who. Or why.”

Azhar crouched beside her and washed his hands. The blood didn’t bother him—that bothered him more than anything.

He stared into the water. For a moment, he didn’t see himself.

He saw red eyes.

Jagged fangs.

A creature of instinct and fury.

“I keep seeing things,” he said softly. “Memories. Maybe. Or hallucinations. I don’t know.”

Mia looked at him, her expression unreadable.

“What kind of things?”

“Fires. Wolves. Battle. A name—Beau. I think he betrayed me. I think I lost everything because of him.”

Mia’s face stiffened at the name. “Beau.” She repeated it like it was acid.

“You know him?”

“I knew of him.” She stood, shaking water from her hands. “He was a Beta once. Smart. Cunning. The kind who smiles before he kills you.”

Azhar stood too, muscles tense. “He was part of my pack.”

“He still is,” Mia said. “But not yours.”

---

They made camp under the twisted roots of a dead tree. Mia lit no fire, relying on the moonlight and her sharpened senses. Azhar sat nearby, his back against the trunk, feeling every creak of the forest under his skin. His hearing was sharper. His sight clearer. But his heartbeat?

Unsettled. Restless.

As if something deep inside him was trying to break loose.

“How did you become what you are?” he asked.

Mia tilted her head. “You mean a shifter?”

He nodded.

“Born with it,” she replied. “My mother was one of the last of her line. She raised me alone. Taught me how to shift without losing myself. Taught me how to fight when every pack turned against us.”

Azhar listened. “You’ve been running too.”

“Always.” Her voice was quiet.

A pause.

“What about you?” she asked. “Did you feel it? When you shifted?”

Azhar swallowed.

“It wasn’t like flipping a switch. It was like a dam breaking. Like there was a monster inside me and I just… stopped holding it back.”

Mia nodded slowly. “It’s not a monster. It’s you. Or a part of you. You have to learn how to let it merge—not fight it.”

Azhar closed his eyes.

And then it came again.

The pain.

Sudden. Violent. Raw.

He doubled over, gasping, clutching his ribs as something burned under his skin. His bones cracked. His muscles twisted. He fell forward, hands digging into the soil.

“Azhar!” Mia was already at his side.

He looked up. His eyes glowed deep crimson.

“It’s happening,” he growled. “I can’t stop it.”

“Don’t fight it,” Mia snapped. “Let it happen. Stay aware. Stay you.”

Azhar’s scream tore through the trees.

---

The shift was like being set on fire from the inside out.

His spine curved. Claws ripped through his fingers. His jaw extended. His senses exploded—he could hear the ants crawling beneath the earth, the wind brushing every leaf, the blood pumping in Mia’s veins.

He wasn’t fully wolf. Not fully man.

Somewhere in between.

He stood there, panting, his form trembling—taller now, his body a twisted fusion of beast and human. Black fur traced along his back and arms. His teeth glinted in the moonlight.

Mia stepped in front of him slowly.

Her expression was calm, her eyes calculating—but not afraid.

“Azhar,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

He stared at her.

Then nodded.

He could hear everything—especially her. Her voice was like an anchor. Her scent was familiar now. Not a threat. Not prey.

A partner.

“Good,” she said. “Now breathe. Let the shift settle. Don’t rush it.”

He closed his eyes.

Focused.

Slowly, the pain ebbed. His body shrank. Bones snapped back into place. The claws receded.

And then he was kneeling in the dirt—human again. Naked, sweat-drenched, shaking.

Mia tossed him a cloak.

“Your first controlled shift,” she said. “Impressive.”

Azhar draped the cloak over himself. “I thought I’d lose myself.”

“You didn’t. You held on.” She sat down across from him. “That’s what matters.”

---

The wind shifted.

Azhar’s head turned sharply. “Do you feel that?”

Mia was already reaching for her weapons. “Yes.”

From the trees came a rustle. Then a shape stepped out of the shadows.

Not a hunter.

Not a beast.

Something... worse.

Its body was humanoid, but corrupted—skin pulled tight over bones, eyes glowing yellow, claws extended longer than natural. It sniffed the air and grinned.

“So it’s true. The Crimson Alpha walks again.”

Azhar stood, fire in his eyes. “Who are you?”

The creature tilted its head. “Just a messenger. From Beau.”

Azhar’s muscles tensed.

“He says if you remember who you are... you’ll know why you need to die.”

Azhar stepped forward.

“Then tell Beau—”

Claws burst from his fingers.

“—I’m starting to remember.”