The darkness was absolute. It pressed against the eyes, thick and suffocating, devoid of even the faintest sliver of moonlight.
Out of the pitch black, a voice echoed.
It was sharp, authoritative, and carried the steady, unyielding vigor of a middle-aged woman, despite the title she bore.
"Vukan, you are fifteen years old," the voice called out, bouncing off unseen stone walls.
"I know you can't transform. But I can teach you how you can develop your senses and strengthen the body of a dormant descendant of the beast within you." A deliberate pause hung in the cold air. "Mind you, during this training, you cannot take off your blindfold. You have to use your senses."
"Yes, Grandma," a young, steady voice replied.
Silence stretched for a mere heartbeat before the air snapped.
It started with a sharp hiss. An arrow sliced through the dark, aimed directly at Vukan's chest. He didn't see it; he felt the sudden displacement of air. He pivoted on his heel, letting the feathered shaft graze the fabric of his shirt before it shattered against the wall behind him.
Instantly, the room erupted into a lethal symphony.
Thwack. Swish. Clang.
Volleys of arrows rained down from hidden mechanical launchers. Vukan dropped to his knees as three shafts whistled over his head, a cold gust of displaced air sweeping his hair. He rolled to the left, springing back to his feet just as the heavy, humming weight of a spear hurled toward him.
His nostrils flared, catching the scent of oiled wood and rusted iron. He stepped sideways, twisting his torso. The spear tore past him, burying itself deep into the stone floor with a violent crack. More projectiles followed in a relentless, blinding crossfire.
Vukan moved like water. He relied on the micro-shifts in the air pressure, the faint click of the launchers, and the subtle vibrations in the floorboards. He ducked under a sweeping javelin, vaulted over a low-firing bolt, and backflipped away from a twin pair of spears that slammed into the space he had just occupied.
His heart hammered in his chest, pumping adrenaline through veins that carried ancient, dormant blood. It was thrilling, a chaotic dance on the razor's edge of survival, and he was executing it effortlessly.
"It is done," Mila's voice cut through the chaos.
The mechanisms whirred to a halt. The hissing air settled.
Breathing heavily, a smirk playing on his lips, Vukan reached up and pulled the heavy leather blindfold from his eyes.
___
Light flooded his vision, revealing the sprawling magnificence of their home.
This was Lozère, France.
Looking out the massive arched windows of the training hall, the view was breathtaking.
Plunging, verdant valleys cut through towering, mist-shrouded mountains. Perched precariously at the very top of the highest peak was their estate—a colossal, ancient, yet impeccably maintained stone castle.
It loomed over the world below, a silent fortress guarding centuries of secrets.
Vukan leaned against the windowsill, looking out over the dense forests.
The adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a heavy, familiar sense of duty.
"I am a Leleu. We are the descendants of the Beast of Gévaudan." Vukan thought.
"I am the youngest. The last of my generation. Once, our family was a sprawling empire, a massive clan of the oldest, purest-blood werewolves to walk the earth. Now, it's just us. A single branch. Grandma Mila, my father Antoine, my mother Jade, and me. That's all that is left of the mighty Leleu."
"The history books—the ones humans read to scare themselves at night—say the Beast of Gévaudan was an unidentified, massive creature. Maybe multiple animals. They say it killed nearly three hundred people in south-central France between 1764 and 1767. They describe a wolf-like monstrosity the size of a bears, with reddish fur and a dark, vicious black stripe down its back. They say it targeted women and children, leaving mutilated bodies in its wake, shrugging off the musket fire of entire military hunts."
"The books claim the beast was finally brought down by a hunter. A man named Jean Chastel, in 1767."
"They don't know the truth. The 'Beast' wasn't an animal. It was us. My ancestors. And the lore they recorded isn't entirely true—it's a twisted, half-remembered nightmare spun by frightened men."
"But Jean Chastel? He was real enough. And so is his bloodline. The Chastels and the Leleus are arch-enemies, locked in a holy war that has spanned centuries. At one time, both sides commanded armies. We hunted them, they hunted us. Now, after hundreds of years of endless bloodshed, the great war has reduced both our ancient families to ashes. There are so few of us left on either side that you can count the survivors on one hand."
"Vukan!"
The sharp call shattered his thoughts.
He turned to see Grandma Mila standing in the grand archway of the training hall, her posture rigid, her eyes holding the ancient, proud fire of their ancestors.
"Let's go to the dining hall," she instructed, turning on her heel. "Your parents are waiting."
"Coming," Vukan murmured. He took one last look at the rugged, untamed mountains of Lozère—the lands his family had bathed in blood centuries ago—and followed her into the depths of the castle.