The end of the war

Werewolves don't fight in daylight. I think it's one of the first things I remember my teacher saying, way before I could truly comprehend the meaning of it. It was fine until a century or two ago when, if any unlucky human saw anything they would have been considered mad, but now, with phones and cameras in everyone's pocket?

We are wolves in the shadow, humans in the light.

We were. Until this war. Until the rogues broke every rule we have ever been taught and we had to push ourselves out of everything that felt right in order to defeat them.

Once the sun starts to rise, and the piles of bodies gather around the open field, every instinct screams at me to run. To hide. I see everyone around me feeling the same, everyone remembering what we've been taught. Except our enemy, who teached their children that victory must come at any price.

I see people so tired, they can't maintain their wolf form. They fall on their knees, so tired they don't raise their heads when the enemy bites off