Chapter 2: The Girl in the Mist

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.