Episode 107 — The Howl of the Damned
Titus said nothing more to the wolf.
He turned.
The anger was no longer hidden.
It hung in the air—thick, like smoke that refused to clear.
Each of his steps carried a dangerous kind of restraint, the kind that warned of something worse underneath.
Titus never took his eyes off the cells.
His voice came out sharp as a blade.
"Let's go."
Pause.
"Now."
The manager hesitated.
"My lord… it's not necessary. They're dangerous. Indecent. They're not worth—"
"I'm not asking you."
He cut her off.
Flat.
The hardness in his tone was enough to freeze her blood.
"I'm giving you an order."
He stepped closer, boots striking the floor with authority, with intent.
"Take me to those cells."
Silence.
Pressure fell over everyone.
Thick. Suffocating.
The air itself seemed afraid to move.
The manager lowered her head immediately.
"Forgive me, my lord."
Her voice changed.
Submissive. Broken.
"At once."
She turned without another word.
Didn't argue.
Didn't look back.
And the sound of her steps was nothing but restrained fear.
And in that moment—
everyone understood.
He wasn't doubting anymore.
He was commanding.
And his calm was worse than shouting.
His gaze locked on the side corridors.
The bars.
The shadows behind them.
His voice came out hard.
Tense.
Every word carrying a mist of anger.
"Those corridors."
Pause.
"What's in those corridors?"
The manager froze.
Didn't answer right away.
That silence was a mistake.
"Answer."
He stepped forward.
The echo of his boot hit like a threat.
"Now."
She lowered her gaze just slightly.
"Cells, my lord."
Silence.
Heavy.
So long it hurt to breathe.
"Cells for what purpose?"
It wasn't a soft question.
It was pressure—judgment lurking behind the words.
"To hold prisoners."
Titus didn't look away.
The muscles in his jaw tightened.
"So… you have prisoners."
"Yes, my lord."
She swallowed hard.
"It's an… undisclosed facility."
"A prison for the clans."
The air grew heavier.
The silence darker.
"In those cells are werewolves from different clans."
Titus took another step forward.
The anger was no longer hidden.
Still contained.
But sharp—deadly.
"And what exactly is the reason they're here?"
Silence.
His voice weighed down on them all.
"Is it the same reason you punish those men?"
No one answered.
And every second without a response made the tension grow worse.
"Because if it is…"
Pause.
Slow.
Dreadful.
His voice dropped.
Colder.
More dangerous.
"Then we have a real problem."
The sound was control itself—
rage that refused to break.
Absolute silence.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
And yet everyone knew the storm was still there—
waiting for a single word to unleash itself.
They walked.
The echo of their footsteps faded between stone and damp air.
The corridor seemed endless—a stretch of darkness and rusted metal that refused to end.
The duchess walked beside him.
And for the first time…
something in her had changed.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Something closer to pride.
To quiet satisfaction.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
Said nothing.
But it was there—in the faint curve of her lips, in how measured her breathing had become.
Titus didn't slow his pace.
His eyes stayed fixed ahead.
"Why are all those lycanthropes locked up here?"
His voice wasn't gentle.
It was a command disguised as a question.
The duchess answered without hesitation.
"This is a hidden facility."
Pause.
"A control point for all the clans."
Her words echoed down the wet stone walls.
"They're brought here from different territories," she continued.
"From every clan."
The air grew heavier, harder to breathe.
"And what did they do?" Titus turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp.
"What exactly did they do against the law?"
The duchess didn't flinch.
"Some broke the laws of their own clans," she said calmly.
"Others… murdered."
Pause.
"And that too is forbidden."
Titus stepped forward.
"And the others?"
She drew in a slow breath before answering.
"Some killed while already imprisoned elsewhere… and were sent here."
Silence.
Titus didn't look away.
His voice lowered a notch.
"And those who didn't kill?"
The tension in the air tightened again.
"What are their charges?"
Another pause.
Colder.
"Are they the same ones you punished those four men for?"
The duchess looked at him for a moment.
There was no fear—only a measured coldness.
"Not all," she said.
"But the consequences… usually end up the same."
They walked a few more steps.
"How many are here?"
"One hundred."
Pause.
"From every clan."
The duchess's tone softened, barely above a whisper.
"Clans you've never heard of.
Some you don't even know exist."
The atmosphere shifted.
Thicker.
Stranger.
"There aren't only common werewolves down here," she added.
Pause.
"There are bear-men.
And also… foxes."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"Some of them," she said, "are more dangerous than the wolves themselves."
Titus said nothing.
He didn't need to.
This place…
made less and less sense—
and held more and more power.
yet
been destroyed.
They walked.
They moved deeper into the corridors.
And the farther they went…
the worse the air became.
The smell.
Rot.
Filth.
Old blood.
And something else.
Something without a name.
Each step made the air thicker.
Heavier.
Harder to endure.
It clung to their skin,
to their throats,
as if the place itself didn't want them to breathe.
Until they arrived.
A collection of cells.
Many of them.
Thirty.
Maybe forty.
Not all occupied.
But most… were.
And what was inside—
wasn't normal.
Lycanthropes.
In every possible state.
Some human.
Others half‑transformed.
And others… completely lost.
Wolves.
Not werewolves.
Real wolves.
Locked up beside others like them.
Without control.
Without awareness.
The women were kept separate,
in other cells,
deeper in.
There were giant bodies—
men over eight feet tall,
all muscle,
twisted by their own strength.
Others… the opposite.
An old wolf,
in human form.
Thin.
With a beard down his chest,
sunken eyes,
almost lifeless.
No one was clean.
Almost no one wore clothes.
Just scraps.
White trousers—
dirty,
stained.
Torn hospital shirts,
clinging to broken bodies.
No food.
No water.
Only abandonment.
Only confinement.
Only time.
And then—
movement.
Guards.
They ran at the sight of them.
Took position immediately,
blocking the way.
They weren't human.
They were werewolves.
But disciplined.
Controlled.
They wore light armor,
shields,
spears.
Like old warriors.
Like Spartans.
"Step back."
The order was firm.
"You don't have permission to be here."
"Surrender."
The tension thickened.
The duchess didn't move.
The manager didn't either.
But Titus…
did.
He moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
And as he did—
his body began to change.
Darkened.
Expanded.
His hands—bigger, blacker—closed around the guards' throats.
He lifted them effortlessly.
A heartbeat.
Then—
he struck.
Head against head.
The impact echoed through the hall like thunder.
The bodies fell.
Stunned.
Motionless.
Silence.
A second.
Two.
Then—
a sound.
A howl.
Just one at first.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
From the cells.
From the corridors.
From everywhere.
The prisoners answered.
They howled.
Not from pain.
Not this time.
It was something else.
Something deeper.
Older.
A symphony.
Beautiful.
Savage.
Impossible.
Born from broken creatures,
from shattered bodies—
and yet still…
alive.
And for a moment,
no one spoke.
Because they all felt it.
That sound…
wasn't weakness.
It was what hadn't yet
been destroyed.