With careful precision, she found a small gap between the boards. Holding her breath, she gently pried one up, cringing as the creak echoed in the space around her. The noise seemed deafening in the suffocating silence. She froze, her heart hammering in her chest, but again, no sound came from below. She couldn't waste time wondering if she'd been heard; she had to act now.
Lauretta's fingers reached through the small gap she had created, feeling for any sign of light, any glimpse into the conference room. The darkness pressed against her, and she strained to hear the faintest murmur from below. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, a sliver of pale light filtered through, casting faint shadows against the walls of the room beneath her. Her breath caught as she recognized one of the voices—the cold, commanding tone that could only be Marcus. The other voice was unfamiliar, but Lauretta was certain it was someone important. Someone with power.
She had to know what was being said. With one final push of adrenaline, Lauretta leaned in closer, her ear just inches from the crack, straining to hear every word.
Carefully, she positioned herself over a vent and peered down. The dimly lit room was small but felt heavy with tension. Four figures sat around a table: two Alphas and two Betas. They were some of the strongest leaders remaining from the once-thriving werewolf packs. Once, there had been four dominant packs guarding their world: the Black-Moon Pack, which controlled the eastern territory; the Red-Moon Pack in the west; the Golden-Moon Pack in the north; and the Silver-Moon Pack in the south. Together, they kept balance and maintained peace, their borders preventing chaos from spilling into the human world.
The human territory was a stark contrast to the werewolf lands. A modern, bustling town, it sat at the edge of werewolf territory, its bright lights and paved roads standing in defiance of the wild forests beyond. Humans went about their lives oblivious to the supernatural forces that lurked just beyond their borders. Though myths and rumors of werewolves circulated among the more superstitious, most dismissed them as nothing more than old tales whispered around campfires or woven into cautionary folklore.
The treaty forged thousands of years ago ensured the safety of both humans and wolves by keeping their worlds separate. It was not merely an agreement of words but a pact bound by ancient magic—one that could not be broken without severe consequences. Werewolves were strictly forbidden from entering human territory without permission, just as humans were warned never to venture too deep into the forests. The barrier between them was invisible yet absolute, upheld by forces even the Alphas did not fully understand.
Any wolf that dared to cross the border uninvited faced dire consequences. The magic of the treaty was woven into their very being, and those who defied it often met a fate worse than death. Some were stripped of their wolf, forced into a half-existence where they could never shift again. Others vanished entirely, their names whispered as warnings among the packs. Even the strongest Alphas hesitated before testing the ancient laws that held their world in balance.
But not all wolves followed the rules. Some, driven by desperation, revenge, or sheer recklessness, had found ways to slip through the cracks of the treaty's magic. Smugglers, spies, and outcasts who no longer feared the wrath of the packs or the laws of the humans. They moved in the shadows, hidden from both sides, walking the fine line between two worlds.
And then there were the rumors. Whispers of humans who knew more than they should, of secret hunters trained to recognize the signs of a werewolf among them. Some said the government had long suspected the existence of the supernatural and had its own ways of keeping the balance in check. Others believed that certain families, passed down through generations, had been entrusted with the knowledge of the wolves and were sworn to uphold the treaty at all costs.
For now, the fragile peace held. But with the packs falling and the rogue forces growing stronger, the balance was shifting. And if the war reached human lands, no treaty—no magic—would be able to contain the chaos that followed.
Beyond the borders of the werewolf packs lay the unclaimed wilds—a dangerous, lawless expanse of dense forests, treacherous rivers, towering cliffs, and an unrelenting wilderness that swallowed even the bravest souls. No pack claimed these lands, for they were untamable, ruled only by the beasts that lurked in the shadows. The wilds were home to feral rogues, outcasts who had abandoned pack life, either by choice or exile. Many had succumbed to their primal instincts, losing all sense of reason, becoming nothing more than mindless predators.
Worse still, the wilds were blanketed in heavy snow during the colder months, turning the land into a frozen graveyard. Thick drifts concealed jagged rocks and hidden ravines, while icy winds howled through the trees, drowning out even the sharpest senses. Starvation and frostbite claimed as many lives as the creatures that prowled in the darkness.
But the wilds were more than just a wasteland of the lost and forsaken—they were a threat. A breeding ground for rebellion. Here, rogue factions gathered in secret, whispering of a future where packs no longer ruled, where the old ways crumbled, and hierarchy was nothing more than a memory. Those who had been cast out for defying their alphas found purpose in these lawless lands, banding together under leaders no one spoke of aloud.
The packs knew the danger. Patrols were sent to monitor the borders, but few dared to cross into rogue territory. Those who did rarely returned, and when they did, they were never the same. Some came back as hollow shells of their former selves, their minds shattered by whatever horrors they had faced. Others... returned as traitors, slipping into the heart of the packs like venom in the bloodstream, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.