SUMMARY
"My Wolve Man" is a story about a young woman named Elara who lives on the edge of a fearful town. She goes into the mysterious Shadow wood forest to investigate a series of brutal animal attacks and discovers tracks that belong to both a wolf and a man. After injuring herself, she's rescued by a magnificent, midnight-furred wolf who transforms into a man named Silas. Elara learns that Silas is the guardian of the forest and is not responsible for the killings. She discovers that the true culprit is a powerful spiritual blight, controlled by a malevolent figure named Malak, which has corrupted Silas's own wolf pack. Working together, Elara and Silas fight the blight, and Elara manages to destroy its source, a black crystal, vanquishing Malak and healing the forest. The story concludes with Elara and Silas together, having found a home and a pack with each other.
PART ONE
The Edge of the Forest Oak haven was a town that lived in fear of its own shadow. Or, more accurately, the shadow of the Shadow wood. The dense, ancient forest began where the last farm field ended, a wall of
towering oaks and black pines that seemed to swallow the light. It was a place of whispered warnings and old folk tales, a realm where even the boldest hunters refused to tread after sundown. For me, Elara Vance, the Shadow wood was something else entirely. It was a quiet kind of peace. My small cottage, a relic passed down from my grandmother, sat on the very edge of town, just a stone's throw from the forest line.
While others looked at the tree line with a shudder, I saw a living, breathing entity, full of secrets I longed to uncover. My days were spent not in the bustling town square, but in the dappled light of the forest's periphery, gathering herbs and sketching the unique patterns of
the moss on ancient stones. I was an outsider in Oak haven, a girl
more comfortable with the silence of the trees than the gossip of the
townsfolk. My grandmother, they said, was the same. A wise woman, a healer, but one who kept to herself and spoke of a kind of wild magic that made the others nervous. I'd inherited her gift for understanding the language of plants and her comfortable solitude.
Lately, however, a new kind of fear had gripped the town.
The old fear was a distant hum, a superstition. This one was sharp and real. It started with whispers: a shepherd losing a lamb, a farmer finding
his henhouse scattered and empty. But then the whispers became screams. Two calves, a prize boar, all slaughtered with a brutal efficiency that no common wolf could manage. The wounds were deep, ragged, and unnatural. "It's a beast," old man Gable, the town's de facto leader, declared at the general store. His voice was a low rumble, meant to inspire courage but only fanning the flames of panic. "It comes from the wood. We must organize a hunting party." The townsfolk nodded
grimly, their eyes wide with terror. I listened from the back, clutching
a pouch of dried chamomile, my mind running through the stories my grandmother had told me. She spoke of the wolves of the Shadow wood not as monsters, but as spirits, protectors of the ancient trees. She'd said a wolf's kill was always clean, a necessary part of the cycle. These killings
were not clean. They were driven by a frenzy, a malice that felt wrong.
Driven by a strange mix of curiosity and a stubborn sense of loyalty to the forest that had been my only friend, I decided to go deeper than I ever had before. I wasn't a hunter, but I knew the paths of the forest
better than anyone in Oak haven. I could read the signs on the ground: the deer trails, the fox burrows, the places where wild mint grew
near a stream. I wanted to see the tracks myself, to prove that
this "beast" was not one of the forest's own. I packed a small satchel with my sketchpad, a few rations, and a vial of arnica oil for bruises. I left
at dawn, slipping into the gloom beneath the pines before the sun had fully risen. The air grew colder the deeper I went, heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The familiar comfort I usually felt
was replaced by a prickling unease. This part of the forest
felt different. It was quieter, almost unnaturally so. The
birdsong had faded, and the rustle of small creatures had ceased.
The tracks were not hard to find.
They were near a small stream
that snaked through a hollow,
where the earth was soft and
muddy. I knelt, my fingers tracing
the outline of a paw print that
was impossibly large, bigger than
a timber wolf's. It was the other
prints that made my breath
catch in my throat. Interspersed
with the massive paw prints were
what looked like bare human
footprints, long and narrow. They
were not a casual companion's
prints. They were aligned,
striding with the same
purposeful gait as the paw prints.
The beast and the man were one
and the same.
A cold, hard knot formed in
my stomach. The folk tales
were wrong. The beast
wasn't a beast at all. It was
something... more. It was a
man, and a wolf, and
something terrifying in
between. I stood abruptly,
a chill sweeping through
me that had nothing to do
with the forest air. I had
found my answers, and
they were far more
frightening than the
townsfolk's simple fear.
I turned to leave, but as I
did, my foot slipped on a
patch of wet moss, and I
went down hard, my ankle
twisting beneath me with a
sharp, sickening crack. A
wave of white-hot pain
washed over me, and I bit
back a cry. My satchel went
flying, my sketchpad landing
in a puddle, its pages
soaking up the mud.
Panic set in. I was deep in
the Shadowwood, with a
broken ankle, and the
scent of blood in the air.
The silence around me
suddenly felt like a held
breath. I tried to stand, to
crawl, but the pain was
too much. I sank back
against a mossy log, tears
welling in my eyes, not
from the pain, but from
the chilling realization
that my curiosity had just
put me in mortal danger.
That's when I heard it. A
rustle in the underbrush,
not a light, scurrying
sound, but a heavy,
deliberate movement. My
heart hammered against
my ribs, a frantic drumbeat
of terror. I squeezed my
eyes shut, my mind
conjuring images of the
ragged wounds on the
dead livestock. I was just
another animal, another
meal.
But the sound was followed
not by an attack, but by a low,
rumbling growl, a sound so
deep it vibrated in my chest. I
forced my eyes open.
Standing just a few feet away,
its massive form blending into
the shadows, was a wolf. But it
was unlike any wolf I had ever
seen. Its fur was the color of
midnight, its eyes two
piercing points of amber light.
Its body was impossibly large,
muscular and powerful, its
head held high with a regal,
almost intelligent grace. It
wasn't a beast. It was a king.
It took a step closer, its gaze
fixed on me. I didn't move. I
couldn't. This was the thing
the townsfolk feared, the
monster that haunted their
nightmares. But looking into
those amber eyes, I didn't see
malice. I saw a profound,
ancient sadness. It lowered its
head, sniffing the air, its
nostrils flaring as it caught the
scent of my injury. It let out a
soft whine, a sound of almost
human pity.
Then, with an elegant,
unhurried grace, it turned
and disappeared back into
the trees, leaving me alone
in the forest once more. It
hadn't attacked. It had only
watched, and then... it had
left. The confusion was as
profound as the fear. This
was not the monster from
the town's stories. This was
my wolve man. And he was
not a murderer.
PART TWO
Fined The Guardian of the Wooday Two Non-Connect
The sun began to set,
casting long, menacing
shadows through the
trees. My ankle throbbed
with a dull, insistent
pain, and a fever was
beginning to set in. The
cold of the forest floor
was seeping into my
bones, and I knew I
couldn't last the night. I
had to try to move.
I gritted my teeth and
began to crawl, pulling
myself forward with my
hands, dragging my
injured leg behind me.
Every inch was an agony.
The forest seemed to
mock me, its winding roots
and tangled branches a
hostile maze. Just as
despair began to set in, a
new sound cut through
the silence.
It was the snapping of a
twig, followed by the
soft padding of paws.
My heart leaped into my
throat. The wolf was
back. I squeezed my
eyes shut, bracing for
the end, but nothing
happened. I felt a gentle
nudge, a warm, wet nose
pressing against my
hand. I opened my eyes.
The great midnight wolf
was standing over me,
its amber eyes glowing
softly in the fading light.
It nudged me again, then
let out a low, guttural huff.
It turned, padding a few
feet away, and then looked
back at me, its gaze
expectant. I understood. It
wanted me to follow. The
absurdity of the situation
almost made me laugh. I
was about to follow a
mythical wolf-man, the
very creature the town
feared, deeper into the
forbidden woods. But what
other choice did I have?
With a grunt of effort, I
pulled myself up into a
sitting position. The wolf
came back to me, its
powerful head low. I
gingerly reached out a
hand, and to my surprise,
it didn't flinch. I ran my
fingers through its thick,
dark fur, and a sense of
calm, of ancient strength,
flowed through me. He
was real. He wasn't a
monster. He was… a friend.
He led me through the
twilight gloom, stopping
often to wait for me to catch
up. He didn't seem to care
about the pain I was in. He
seemed to understand that I
was an ally. He led me
through a part of the forest
I'd never even known existed,
past a curtain of trailing
vines and into a clearing
where a small, rough-hewn
cabin stood. It was built into
the base of a great, gnarled
oak, its roof covered in moss
and ferns. It was as much a
part of the forest as the
trees themselves.
The wolf nudged the
door open with its head,
then waited. I crawled
inside, and it was
surprisingly warm, lit by
a flickering fire in a
stone hearth. There was
a simple bed of furs in
one corner, a shelf with
a few crude tools, and a
small stack of what
looked like hand-carved
animal figurines.
The wolf didn't follow me in.
Instead, it stood in the
doorway, its head tilted.
Then, before my eyes, the
impossible happened. His
form seemed to shimmer and
blur, the powerful limbs
shrinking, the midnight fur
receding into skin. The
magnificent head became
that of a man, his features
strong and chiseled, framed
by a cascade of dark hair. He
was tall, powerfully built,
with broad shoulders and a
lean, muscular frame. But it
was his eyes that held me.
They were the same piercing,
amber eyes as the wolf.
He was my wolve man.
He stumble
d into the cabin,
collapsing onto the furs. I saw a
long, deep gash on his side,
ragged and bleeding, just below
his ribs. It was a vicious wound.
He was in pain, his breathing
ragged, his face pale beneath a
layer of grime. He was not a
beast. He was a man, and he was
hurt. My terror was replaced by a
surge of empathy, of a fierce
need to help. He wasn't the one
killing the livestock. He was the
one being hunted.
I hobbled over to him,
my own pain forgotten.
"You're hurt," I
whispered, my voice
trembling. He opened
his eyes and looked at
me, a flash of surprise in
their amber depths, as
if he hadn't expected
me to stay. He just gave
a low groan.
I knew what to do. My
grandmother had taught me. I
found a small basin and a
stack of clean cloths in a
corner. I found a few small
packets of herbs. A poultice of
comfrey for the bleeding, a
brew of feverfew for the heat.
I worked quickly, my hands
surprisingly steady despite my
shaking. He watched me
silently, his gaze never leaving
my face as I cleaned his
wound, and applied the herbs.
He didn't flinch, didn't
complain, just watched.
When I was done, I helped
him into a more
comfortable position on
the furs. I settled down in
a corner near the fire,
pulling a bear fur over my
shoulders to ward off the
chill. I looked at the man,
the wolve man, sleeping
peacefully, and felt a
profound sense of awe.
He was a creature of two
worlds. A guardian of the
forest, a man, a wolf.
The next morning, I woke
to the smell of stew. He
was sitting by the fire, a
rough wooden bowl in his
hands. He was still pale,
but the wound was already
beginning to knit together,
the skin pulling tight. He
was a healer in his own
right, it seemed.
"You… saved me," he said,
his voice a low, gravelly
rumble, like the shifting of
stones. He didn't look at
me, but stared into the
fire.
I nodded, feeling a blush
creep up my neck. "It's what
I do. My grandmother taught
me."
He finally looked at me, and
in his eyes, I saw something
shift. The wariness was still
there, but it was mixed with
a new sense of curiosity, of
grudging respect. "You're not
afraid," he said. It wasn't a
question.
I thought about it. The
terror from the night
before was gone,
replaced by a quiet
wonder. "I'm not afraid of
the woods. And I'm not
afraid of you."
He nodded slowly, a
small, almost
imperceptible smile
touching the corner of
his lips. "I am Silas," he
said. "And I am not a
beast. I am the guardian."
And so our new life
began.
Part Three
A Blight in the Forest
Our days settled into a
rhythm. My ankle healed
slowly, and as it did, I learned
more about Silas. He was
indeed the guardian of the
Shadowwood. He lived a
solitary existence, moving
between his human form and
his wolf form with a grace
that still took my breath
away. He explained that the
ancient bloodline of
guardians was tied to the
land. As long as he protected
the forest, the forest
protected him. But
something was wrong.
"The sickness," he said
one day, his voice grave
as he showed me a patch
of withered ferns near a
bubbling spring. The
water, usually crystal
clear, was now murky and
slick with a dark, oily
sheen. "It's not just the
animals. The blight is
spreading. It taints
everything it touches."
He had been tracking the
source, a source that was not
a natural part of the forest.
The ragged wounds on the
livestock and his own injury
were not from a primal
predator. They were from a
pack of wolves, a pack he had
once called his own, that had
been corrupted by the blight.
Their minds were twisted,
their natural instincts
replaced with a cold, killing
frenzy. They had been driven
mad, their amber eyes turned
a malevolent, sickly yellow.
I realized then that his lone
wolf existence was a lonely
one. He was a shepherd
without a flock, a king
without a kingdom. The
blight had stolen his people,
and now it was coming for
his home.
My knowledge of herbs
proved invaluable. I worked
with him, mixing poultices
and infusions to heal the
small, blighted patches we
found. But the sickness was
spreading faster than we
could heal it. We needed to
find the source.
We followed the trail of the
blight deeper into the
forest, a two-man team in a
battle against an invisible
enemy. We walked for days,
a quiet understanding
growing between us. He
was a silent companion,
communicating more with
gestures and subtle
expressions than words. I
learned to read him: the
slight twitch of his ear as a
wolf when a noise
disturbed the quiet, the
tense set of his jaw as a
man when we drew near a
blighted area.
I told him about Oakhaven,
about the simple lives of the
townsfolk, and the fear that
drove them. I didn't tell him
they believed he was the
monster, but I think he knew.
He spoke of the old ways, of
the balance of the forest,
and the ancient spirits that
lived within the trees. His
stories were of a world far
older than Oakhaven, a world
of deep magic and
responsibility.
One afternoon, we came
across a sight that made
my blood run cold. Lying
on the ground was a deer,
its eyes wide and vacant.
But it wasn't dead. It was
simply… empty. The life had
been drained from it, and
from the ground around it,
the vegetation had died in
a perfect circle. A thick,
inky mist rose from the
deer, a palpable
corruption.
"It's a spirit blight," Silas
said, his voice a low
growl of anger. "It feeds
on life force. It's too
powerful for a mere
wolf pack. It has a
master."
We looked at each other,
the same question in
both our eyes. Who, or
what, had the power to
wield such a terrible
force?
As if on cue, a shrill, mocking
laugh echoed through the
trees. It was a chilling sound,
like broken glass scraping on
stone. A figure emerged from
the black shadows of a copse
of dead trees. It was a man,
but not a human. His skin was
pale and translucent, his eyes
as black as pitch. He wore a
simple leather tunic, but his
true form seemed to ripple
and shift, like smoke in the
wind. A dark aura of decay
emanated from him.
"Well, well," the figure
hissed, his voice a sibilant
whisper. "The last
guardian. And you have a
little pet with you. How
touching."
Silas's form began to
shift, his muscles coiling
beneath his skin. His eyes
glowed a brighter amber.
"Malak," he said, his voice
a low, furious rumble.
"You have defiled the
forest for the last time."
Malak laughed again, a sound
devoid of mirth. "The forest is
weak. It is ripe for
consumption. And so are you,
my friend. Your pathetic
bloodline is almost
extinguished. You are the last."
Silas lunged forward, but
Malak simply dissolved into a
wisp of shadow, re-forming a
few feet away. "You cannot
fight a sickness, guardian. It is
everywhere. In the water, in
the air. Soon, it will be in your
blood."
Just then, a chorus of
angry snarls filled the air.
A pack of wolves, their
eyes glowing a sickly
yellow, emerged from the
trees. Their bodies were
gaunt, their fur matted
with black, grimy patches.
They were the corrupted.
They surrounded us, teeth
bared, their growls a low
chorus of hate.
Silas shifted fully, his body
exploding into the
magnificent form of the
midnight wolf. He stood
between me and the
corrupted pack, his teeth
bared in a fierce snarl. He
was a creature of pure, raw
power, but he was
outnumbered.
Malak watched from the
sidelines, a cruel smirk on
his face. "Fight your own
kind, guardian. Let's see
what is stronger. The will of
the forest… or the will of its
decay."
Part Four
The Reckoning
The fight began. The
corrupted wolves lunged,
their movements clumsy
and uncoordinated, driven
by nothing but rage. Silas
was a whirlwind of black fur
and flashing claws, a single,
powerful force against the
pack. He fought with a grace
and ferocity that was
breathtaking, but every time
he bit or clawed, the
corrupted wolves simply
staggered back, their
wounds healing with an
unnatural speed. They were
already dead, animated by
the blight.
I knew I couldn't just stand
there. My mind raced,
remembering my
grandmother's lessons.
The blight fed on life force.
It was a poison of the
spirit, but it had to have a
physical source, a link to
the natural world that
could be severed. I looked
at the blighted ferns and
the murky spring. The
water. The water was the
key.
Ignoring the chaos of the fight, I
ran toward the spring, my heart
pounding in my chest. Malak
noticed me, his black eyes
widening in surprise. He hissed,
and a tendril of dark mist shot out
from his hand, lashing toward me
like a whip. I dove to the side,
rolling over the damp earth as the
mist sizzled where I had been.
I reached the spring and saw it. At
the source, a small, crystalline
pool where the water bubbled up
from the earth, there was a black,
crystalline shard, pulsing with a
dark, sickly light. It was the heart
of the blight, the source of the
corruption.
I had to get it out. My fingers
hovered over the dark
crystal. As I reached for it,
Malak appeared before me,
his form solidifying in a swirl
of black smoke. He grabbed
my wrist, his touch cold and
clammy, sapping my
strength.
"Foolish girl," he hissed. "You
think you can stop me? I am
eternal. I am the rot that
cleanses the old to make
way for the new."
He was strong, stronger than I
could have imagined. I could
feel my own life force draining
from me, a cold emptiness
spreading through my limbs. I
looked back at Silas. He was
surrounded, his body bleeding
from a dozen small wounds.
He was getting tired. I had to
do this.
With a final, desperate surge
of will, I twisted my arm free, a
jolt of pain shooting through
me. I ignored it, grabbing a
rock from the ground. I raised
it, my arm trembling, and
brought it down on the black
crystal.
It didn't shatter. It
splintered, sending a
shockwave of dark energy
through the air. The blight
shrieked, a sound of pure
agony. The corrupted
wolves froze, their forms
dissolving into dust and
mist. Malak screamed, a
sound of pure rage and
defeat. His form began to
crumble, the smoke that
made him up dissipating
into the air, a wisp of
nothingness.
Then he was gone.
The forest was silent. The
air, once thick with the
stench of decay, now
smelled of rain and fresh
earth. The murky water in
the spring began to clear,
slowly, a beautiful, natural
blue returning to it. I
looked down at my hand.
The crystal had left a
small, dark mark, a
reminder of the blight. But
the forest was healing. The
sickness was gone.
Silas, exhausted and bloody,
shifted back into his human
form, collapsing to the
ground. I rushed to him, my
own exhaustion forgotten. I
knelt beside him, my hands
finding his. His skin was
warm beneath my touch.
"We did it," I whispered,
tears of relief and
exhaustion streaming down
my face. "We did it."
He looked at me, his amber
eyes filled with a profound
and bone-deep gratitude. "We
did," he said, his voice raspy.
He reached out and touched
the small, dark mark on my
hand, a silent
acknowledgment of the price I
had paid.
The sun began to set, casting
a golden light through the
now-healing forest. We were
no longer a man and a woman,
a guardian and an outsider.
We were two parts of a whole,
two pieces of the same
puzzle. I had found my home.
And he, after all this time, had
found his pack.
And I, for the first time in
my life, wasn't afraid of
the shadows. I was in
love with my wolve man.
THE END