A crisp dawn broke over the rolling plains as Amara, Calen, and Drevan approached the small frontier village of Whisperwood. The settlement—barely more than a loose scattering of wood-plank huts and farmland—seemed eerily still under the pale morning sun. Normally, birdsong or the bustle of villagers would provide a welcoming chorus, but an uneasy silence lingered.

  They’d been sent here on a simple-sounding contract: Stop the mutated monsters attacking the village. But judging by the tension in the air—and the ragged look of the local guard who had greeted them at the outskirts—this was no typical pest problem.

  “S-some kind of giant wolves,” the guard had stammered, eyes wide with fear. “At least twice the size of normal. We tried driving them off with torches, but… they’re not like normal beasts. They’re cunning, and bigger than any wolf I’ve ever seen.”

  He’d looked on the verge of panic, so Calen had offered a reassuring pat on the shoulder, while Amara thanked him for the information. Drevan merely nodded, scanning the horizon with a wary gaze.

  By mid-morning, the trio stood with the village headman, a gaunt older man named Ricard, in a makeshift meeting hall. Sparse furniture and dim lanterns betrayed the villagers’ modest means. Outside, a cold wind rattled the shutters.

  Ricard sighed heavily, worry etched into every line of his face. “We’ve lost three sheep, a horse, and a guard in the last two nights alone,” he said, voice trembling with exhaustion. “We’d hoped a bigger town might send soldiers, but you’re the only ones who answered our plea.”

  Amara glanced at her companions. “We’ll do what we can. Can you show us where these attacks usually happen?”

  The headman nodded. “Mostly on the outskirts, near the old barn. If you need supplies or help, well…” He grimaced. “We’re short on able-bodied folk. We can’t spare many.”

  Calen offered a small, understanding smile. “We’ll manage. Could you gather anyone who’s seen the creatures? Any details about their behavior would help.”

  Ricard looked relieved to have a plan. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  As he shuffled off, Drevan let his gaze sweep around the cramped hall. “Howls at night, livestock torn apart, a handful of sightings… But mutated wolves? That’s new.”

  Amara pressed her lips together. “I’ve heard rumors of fenrirs—giant wolves with magical blood. But they’re usually rare, and they don’t normally gather so close to humans.”

  “Unless something’s driving them here,” Calen murmured, pushing his white hair back from his purple eyes. “We should check that out once we’ve seen the attack site.”

  Drevan nodded, knuckles tightening over the hilt of his sword. “Let’s go.”

  The path leading to the old barn was rough, flanked by untended farmland stripped bare by winter. Broken fences attested to violent struggles—splintered wood and claw marks pitted the ground. A few crows picked at something near the barn’s entrance until the trio’s approach scattered them into the sky.

  Amara bent down, examining broad paw prints pressed into the muddy earth. Each print was nearly twice the size of a normal wolf’s. “Definitely fenrirs,” she said, voice low. “See how elongated the toes are, and those deep gouges? That’s not a standard wolf.”

  Calen’s nose crinkled at the lingering scent of old blood. “They must’ve ambushed livestock here. The barn is half-collapsed, so any animals locked inside would have been easy targets.”

  Drevan studied the trail leading back into the nearby woods. Broken branches and disturbed soil indicated a regular path. “They’re coming from deeper in the forest. We should check it out.”

  Before any of them could respond, the wind shifted, carrying a distant, eerie howl. All three went still, exchanging sharp looks.

  “That’s… close,” Calen breathed.

  Amara rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her palms. “We should hurry.”

  They followed the path into the woods, carefully picking their way among gnarled roots and matted undergrowth. The sunlight dimmed under the canopy, shadows intertwining like a patchwork of menace around them. Every snap of a twig made them tense, scanning for movement.

  A sudden growl echoed off to their left. Drevan raised a hand, signaling a halt. Moments later, a massive shape slunk out from behind a thick oak trunk—a fenrir. It stood nearly shoulder-high to Drevan, bristling silver fur streaked with odd patches of dull black. Its eyes glowed faintly, as if touched by some arcane force.

  It snarled, lips curling back to reveal oversized fangs. Another fenrir stepped into view behind it, this one with a ragged ear and a patchy muzzle. There was no mistaking their predatory intent; these beasts had come to feed.

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  “Calen, barrier!” Amara shouted.

  In an instant, Calen lifted his staff, pale healing light bending into a dome around the trio—less a traditional shield, more a pacifying aura that sometimes confused aggressors. The first fenrir, mid-lunge, hesitated momentarily, teeth bared in confusion. That split second was enough for Drevan to step forward, longsword raised.

  A furious melee broke out. Amara hurled controlled bursts of her eldritch energy, crackling bolts that crashed into the fenrirs’ flanks. Drevan took the lead, intercepting gnashing jaws and raking claws with his shield, his own strength bolstered by Calen’s supportive magic. One fenrir howled in pain, stumbling back as a slash from Drevan’s blade cut across its haunch.

  But the beasts were unnaturally resilient. A savage swipe from the second fenrir’s paw struck Drevan’s shield, nearly knocking him to the ground. Amara summoned another bolt of purple force, narrowly avoiding Drevan as she blasted the creature away. Clumps of soil exploded in a shower, scattering leaves and debris.

  Calen, usually defensive, leapt forward with surprising bravery when the first fenrir circled behind them. He channeled his healing power in reverse—an immobilizing effect that forced the creature’s muscles to slacken, if only for a moment. Drevan seized the chance, driving his sword into its shoulder. The fenrir let out a final wheezing growl before collapsing.

  Spitting blood, the second fenrir recognized the odds had turned. With a last snarl, it turned tail, limping off into the underbrush. Drevan held his shield up, ready for pursuit, but Amara placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Let it go,” she panted, chest heaving. “We can track it if we must, but we need to regroup.”

  Calen bent over the fallen fenrir, pressing a hand to its fur. “Its body…” he said, eyes narrowed. “This one’s definitely been tampered with. Look at the faint scarring on its neck—like a collar or chain was used.”

  Amara’s gaze flicked to the ring of worn skin. Her stomach tightened. “Someone domesticated this thing? You mean these attacks weren’t random?”

  Drevan rested his sword tip on the ground, breathing hard. “Why would anyone raise fenrirs just to unleash them on a village?”

  “Could be a local power play. Maybe a lord wants to drive out villagers for the land,” Calen speculated, gently brushing aside blood-matted fur to reveal other minor scars. “These creatures were kept under control once. Now they’re unleashed.”

  Amara exchanged a wary glance with Drevan. “We need to see if there are more. And who’s behind it.”

  They left the fenrir’s carcass for the villagers to deal with and limped back to Whisperwood, bruised and muddy. Ricard, the headman, paled when he heard about the domestication signs.

  “This is… bigger than we thought,” he said, wringing his hands. “We can’t fight if there are more of those out there.”

  “That’s our job,” Drevan assured him, though his jaw clenched. “If they come back, do what you can to barricade the village. We’ll look for whoever is controlling them.”

  It didn’t take long to gather a few rumors. Locals spoke of a reclusive noble in the region—Lord Vernius—who’d been buying up farmland and strong-arming smaller farmers. Some villagers claimed he’d disappeared behind the walls of his estate after a visit from suspicious “travelers” months prior. Others whispered that howling could sometimes be heard near his lands at night.

  Calen tugged at his sleeve anxiously. “He’s our best lead. If these fenrirs were trained, it’d take wealth and resources to do it.”

  “Then we start there,” Amara said. “But carefully.”

  Drevan frowned. “We can’t just barge into a lord’s estate. We’ll need to scout the place first. If he is behind this, he’ll have guards.”

  Ricard, listening, nodded gravely. “Anything you need from us, just ask. But… please, be cautious. If Lord Vernius is as dangerous as some say, he won’t hesitate to retaliate.”

  Amara’s eyes hardened. “We’ve faced worse.”

  Before leaving for Lord Vernius’s domain, the trio scoured the surrounding countryside for any additional clues. In a wooded glade an hour from Whisperwood, they found a half-collapsed kennel of sorts—stakes driven into the ground, old chains scattered around. The stench of wolf musk lingered. Calen knelt to inspect the corroded metal links, each almost large enough to hold a beast like the fenrirs.

  “Looks like they were kept here temporarily,” he murmured. “When they were smaller? Or maybe just a holding pen. It’s definitely not old; the wood is only partially rotten.”

  Drevan poked at a tattered scrap of cloth near one chain. “This bears a crest,” he said, holding it up. The faint outline of a stylized hawk could be seen.

  Amara peered at it. “Matches the sigil we saw in the village hall—someone said it belongs to Vernius’s house, right?”

  Drevan nodded. “No doubt now. He must be behind it.”

  “Then we’re not dealing with a random manipulator,” Calen said with a grimace. “We’ve got a noble with resources, presumably breeding or mutating these fenrirs for his own ends.”

  Amara carefully tucked the cloth into her belt pouch. “We’ll use this as proof if we have to. Let’s go see this noble for ourselves.”

  They returned to Whisperwood only long enough to relay their findings. Ricard, the headman, paled at the news. “Lord Vernius has men… if he set the fenrirs on us, he won’t hesitate to crush you if you oppose him.”

  Calen offered a gentle smile, though his voice trembled slightly. “We’re not alone, sir. We have each other, and we’ll do what we can to protect you.”

  Drevan hefted his pack, sliding his sword into its sheath with a determined click. “If Lord Vernius is behind this, he has to be stopped. We’ll find out why he’s targeting you.”

  Amara cast a resolute look toward the road that led into the heartland. They’d faced curses, dragons, and liches, but an influential noble controlling monstrous beasts to terrorize common folk felt even more sinister. At least with dragons, you know it’s a dragon’s nature to be fierce. But this… this is cruelty by choice.

  “Let’s move out,” she said. “We won’t let Whisperwood live in fear any longer.”

  Thus, with hearts still pounding from the fenrir battle and minds racing with questions, the trio set forth toward the lord’s estate. A faint wind rustled the branches overhead, carrying the distant cry of unseen wolves. As the village behind them locked doors and dimmed lamps, the three travelers walked into uncertainty with only the scraps of a mysterious puzzle—and the unwavering bond they’d forged through countless trials—to guide them.