Chapter 1

For centuries, humans and werewolves coexisted under a fragile peace. Their world was governed by a sacred pact, the Crescent Pact, which kept both species in harmony. The pact, signed by King Cedric of the humans and Alpha Leoric of the werewolves, established clear borders and ensured no human or wolf crossed into the other's territory without permission. In exchange for peace, the werewolves agreed to share their wisdom of the wild and the secrets of nature, which had made human agriculture and hunting flourish.

But peace, like all things, is fragile, and the ambitions of men are seldom satisfied.

The delicate balance that had maintained the peace began to crack when King Cedric’s son, King Alaric, ascended to the throne. Alaric was a young, ambitious ruler with dreams of expanding his kingdom's borders. He saw the rich, untamed lands of the werewolves as ripe for conquest and exploitation. His advisors whispered of the wealth hidden in those ancient forests—the fertile soil, the untapped rivers, and the mythical resources the werewolves guarded.

Alaric’s father had respected the Crescent Pact, but Alaric saw it as an obstacle to human progress. To him, the werewolves were nothing more than savage beasts holding back human civilization. He began to secretly send scouts into the werewolf territories to map the land and assess its potential.

Alpha Leoric, now an aging leader, sensed the change. He had grown wise in his years, and though he did not trust Alaric, he held hope that the pact would remain unbroken. But as reports came in of human trespassers in their forests, the werewolf council began to grow restless.

“We cannot let this stand,” growled Fenrir, one of the younger alphas, his golden eyes blazing with anger. “They test our patience, and if we show them weakness, they will claim what is ours.”

Leoric, ever the diplomat, raised a hand to silence his kin. “We will not strike without proof. The pact has kept us safe for centuries, and breaking it without cause would make us no better than them. I will send word to King Alaric. He must be reminded of the sacred agreement between them

King Alaric received Leoric’s message but dismissed it without hesitation. In fact, he saw the warning as an opportunity. He summoned his council of war and devised a plan to break the pact under the guise of diplomacy.

“We will invite the werewolves to the capital,” Alaric declared, his lips curling into a smile. “A grand feast to celebrate the renewal of the Crescent Pact. We will assure them of our friendship, and when they are at ease, we will strike.”

His advisors, eager to curry favor with the ambitious king, quickly agreed. Invitations were sent to the werewolf clans, with promises of peace and a celebration of unity. Despite his suspicions, Leoric accepted the invitation. He had always believed in diplomacy over war, and perhaps, he hoped, this would ease the growing tension.

The feast was held on the night of the full moon, a sacred night for the werewolves. Leoric arrived at the human capital with a delegation of his finest warriors, including Fenrir, who was openly wary of the humans. The hall was adorned with banners of peace, and the tables were piled high with food and drink. For a time, it seemed as though the humans truly intended to honor their word.

But as the night wore on, Alaric’s true intentions became clear.

As Leoric rose to give a speech of unity, he noticed the human guards slowly encircling the hall. His sharp ears picked up the unsheathing of swords, and his nose caught the faint scent of fear. In that instant, he knew what was coming.

“Run!” Leoric roared to his kin, but it was too late.

The human soldiers struck with ruthless precision, cutting down the werewolves who had come in peace. Fenrir fought valiantly, tearing through the human ranks, but even he could not save them all. The hall became a battlefield, with blood staining the stone floors.

Leoric, wounded and betrayed, managed to escape with only a handful of survivors. As they fled into the night, the full moon casting a silver glow on their retreating forms, the gravity of the betrayal settled in.

The Crescent Pact was shattered.

In the aftermath of the massacre, the werewolves retreated to their ancestral lands, licking their wounds and mourning their dead. The betrayal had left scars, not just on their bodies but on their souls. The humans had invited them as friends, only to butcher them like prey.

Leoric, once a peaceful leader, was now consumed by rage. His once wise and calm demeanor was replaced by a feral fury that even his own kin feared. He summoned the leaders of the werewolf clans to the sacred grove deep within the heart of the forest.

“The humans have shown us their true nature,” Leoric growled, his voice low and dangerous. “They see us as beasts, as monsters. But they will soon learn that the true monsters are those they have betrayed.”

Fenrir, ever the warrior, stepped forward. “We must take the fight to them. No more treaties, no more words. We must reclaim our honor with blood.”

The werewolf leaders, fueled by their own anger and grief, agreed. For the first time in centuries, the werewolves would go to war.

The werewolves struck swiftly and without mercy. Under the light of the full moon, they became unstoppable. Their claws tore through armor, and their fangs ripped through flesh. The forests, once a place of beauty, became a nightmare for the humans who dared venture into them. Villages along the border were razed, and human soldiers who marched into werewolf territory never returned.

King Alaric, who had thought his betrayal would secure his kingdom’s dominance, now found himself facing an enemy he could not defeat. The werewolves, enraged by the massacre, fought with a savage fury that the humans could not match. Alaric’s armies, though numerous, were no match for the speed and strength of the werewolf warriors under the moon’s light.

The war dragged on for months, with neither side willing to back down. Alaric, desperate to turn the tide, sought the aid of dark magic, summoning sorcerers to cast spells of protection and destruction. But even with magic on his side, he could not overcome the werewolves' wrath.

The final battle came on the night of the Red Moon, a rare celestial event that painted the sky in blood. The werewolves believed it to be a sign from the gods, a blessing for their vengeance. Under the blood-red sky, they gathered their forces for a final assault on the human capital.

Leoric, though aged and wounded, led the charge. His body, once weakened by years of peace, was now fueled by rage and the desire for justice. Fenrir, ever by his side, howled as they descended upon the city.

The humans fought desperately, but they were no match for the werewolves under the Red Moon. The walls of the capital crumbled, and the streets ran red with the blood of soldiers and civilians alike. Alaric, who had once dreamed of conquest, now found himself cornered in his throne room, surrounded by the very creatures he had sought to betray.

Leoric, his fur matted with blood, stood before the king. “You have brought this upon yourself, human,” he growled. “You sought to destroy us, but it is you who will be destroyed.”

With a final, feral snarl, Leoric lunged at the king. Alaric’s scream was cut short as the werewolf’s claws tore through his chest.

With Alaric’s death, the human kingdom fell into chaos. The werewolves, victorious but weary, withdrew to their lands. They had won the war, but at a great cost. Many of their kin had been lost, and the forests were scarred by the violence.

Leoric, now an old and tired leader, returned to his people. He had avenged the betrayal, but the war had changed him. He no longer believed in the possibility of peace between humans and werewolves. The trust had been broken, and the scars of the betrayal would never fully heal.

As the years passed, the werewolves rebuilt their lands, stronger and more united than ever. The humans, weakened and leaderless, struggled to survive in the shadow of the werewolves' victory. The war had shown the world that the werewolves were not to be trifled with, and their name would be spoken with fear and respect for generations to come.

The Crescent Pact was no more, but the werewolves had reclaimed their honor. And though the Red Moon had passed, its memory lived on in the hearts of the werewolves, a reminder that they would never again be betrayed.