“That’s... my father?” Blake’s voice wavered, his eyes fixed on the towering figure in front of him, the Werewolf with the iron mask.
At first, there wasn’t a single shred of resemblance. The creature’s hulking body, the hunched posture, the aura of raw aggression, none of it matched the man Blake had known. To anyone else, it was just another monstrous shape in the chaos of battle.
But Blake didn’t stop at a glance. He kept staring, his gaze locking on the beast’s eyes. Beneath the slitted, predatory pupils, there was something, something painfully familiar. The shape of the eyelids, the faint crease at the edge. A memory buried deep under years of training and a lifetime of moments came rushing to the surface.
Even though the features were distorted to match the anatomy of a Werewolf, Blake’s gut twisted. There was no mistaking it now.
“No!” Blake’s voice cracked as he shook his head violently. “You killed my father! You dealt with him, I don’t know what trick this is, but doing something is sick!”
Ylva’s laughter split the air, rich and mocking, carrying easily over the other sounds of combat.
“The fact you’re saying that,” she said, her lips curling into a smirk, “instead of charging at me, means you already know the truth. You can tell.”
Her tone grew darker. “As you said, I hurt your father, hurt him so badly he was sure to die. If anyone else had taken those wounds, they’d have been gone in an instant. But your father...” Her eyes narrowed, studying Blake’s reaction. “...he was stronger than I gave him credit for. Strong enough to cling to a tiny, fragile spark of life.”
Ylva’s claws flexed slightly as she spoke, her voice taking on a near-reverent edge. “We Werewolves are incredible creatures. We can recover from wounds that would destroy anything else that walks this world. Resilience is in our blood. That sliver of life, when I turned him, was all it took to keep him breathing. To make him survive.”
Her expression hardened. She stepped closer to the masked Werewolf, her hand coming down in a sharp tap between its shoulders. “But the wounds were too severe. Even becoming one of us couldn’t restore him completely. Now, he is . And the only two people he listens to are me... and Lupus.”
Her smile widened, teeth flashing. “Now... be a good boy. Kill your son for me.”
The moment the words left her mouth, the iron-masked Werewolf moved.
It was instant, like a predator that had already chosen its prey. Its body surged forward, claws flashing in the light. The right arm swung out in a diagonal slash, the arc of the strike meant to cleave straight through flesh and bone.
Blake reacted on instinct, his training kicking in. He brought both weapons up in a cross-block, steel catching against claw. He could have met the blow directly, but instead he tried to twist the claws aside, pulling them down toward the ground so the beast’s own momentum would throw it off balance.
The masked Werewolf pulled back with a snap, spinning on its heel. A blur of motion, then the backhand came for Blake’s head.
He caught it, barely, but the next attack came before he could reset. The Werewolf’s foot came up and drove into his stomach.
The impact was like being hit by a charging bull. Air burst from Blake’s lungs. His enchanted swords kept him anchored, kept him from being knocked back, but that only made the pain worse.
Before he could catch his breath, another fist was already coming. This time Blake didn’t block. He pushed off with both feet, leaping backward just far enough to avoid the blow.
“Ahh!” He doubled over slightly, spitting a thick glob of saliva onto the dirt. His breath came in short, ragged bursts.
The sword’s enchantment was both a blessing and a curse. It kept him grounded, let him stand against blows that would send most people flying. But without that backward momentum to bleed off the force, every ounce of the hit slammed directly into his body. The pain didn’t scatter, it built.
From across the field, Ylva watched with an approving smile. “Not even holding back against your own father. I thought that would make you hesitate. Seems I chose well. He might be one of the strongest Werewolves we’ve ever had.”
Blake’s jaw clenched. He knew she wasn’t wrong. Even before this... transformation, his father had been a fighter unlike any other Blake had faced. In all their training matches, Blake had never once beaten him. Now he was faster, stronger, and more dangerous than before.
And Blake had to fight him.
Ylva’s attention drifted from them. The pieces on the board were falling into place in her mind.
If I take Gary out, the rest will crumble. And he struggled with me before...
She broke into a sprint, her powerful strides eating the distance between her and Gary.
But just as she was moving alongside him, a sound cut through the battlefield, a heavy, rhythmic thumping from above.
Ylva’s eyes snapped upward. A helicopter loomed overhead, its shadow sweeping across the fight. The rotors kicked up dust and debris, stinging at her face and whipping her hair.
A moment later, a figure dropped from the aircraft, landing in the center of the field with a solid, ground-shaking thud.
The man was clad in black and red from head to toe. His uniform was distinct, unfamiliar to most of the public. This was no white-and-gold dress of the standard White Rose. This was something different, darker.
Elijah, Sadie, and Frank recognized him instantly.
“That’s the Superintendent,” Elijah said under his breath, his voice tense. “The one in charge of internal discipline for the White Rose. A man with as much authority as the Chief himself... Adam Law.”
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