Miller kept his hood low while walking through the city. The noise never settled—metal vehicles rolling across stone roads, people shouting over each other, music blaring from open doorways. Even at night, the place felt crowded and restless.
He wasn't used to so many humans moving with confidence under the moon. In his time, nighttime belonged to wolves. Humans hid behind doors and shutters. Here, they acted like nothing could touch them.
He moved in a straight line, avoiding anyone who stepped too close. Every unfamiliar scent hit him at once—fried food, smoke, perfume, garbage, too many bodies pressed together. It made his head pound.
A narrow street led into a row of small market stalls. Bright fruits sat on display, colors more vivid than anything he remembered. Dried meats hung from hooks. Cloth dyed with rich pigments waved in the breeze.
He paused, studying them.
A vendor snapped at him.
"You gonna buy something or just look?"
Miller said nothing.
The man scowled. "Then keep moving. I don't feed strays."
Miller looked away. The comment bothered him more than it should have. He kept walking, hands tucked inside the oversized sleeves of his stolen jacket.
The next several days were the same.
He found places to sleep behind buildings or in alleys where steam pipes warmed the air. He scavenged what he could from trash bins—half-eaten sandwiches, bits of cooked meat, stale bread. It wasn't enough to satisfy him, but it kept him moving.
The city overwhelmed him. The constant movement, the overlapping smells, the way people stared at him like he was something wrong. He didn't like how exposed he felt.
A few times he caught whispers as he passed.
"See that guy?"
"Look at his eyes. They're… weird."
"He's not right."
He ignored them. If they knew what he was, their whispers would turn to screams.
He avoided small groups, but one night he turned into a narrow side street without noticing a group of teenage boys waiting near the corner.
"Hey," one called. "You lost?"
Miller stopped.
Another boy stepped out, smirking. "Look at him. Ragged clothes, no shoes. Looks like a stray mutt."
They circled closer. Miller didn't like how they moved—puffed chests, sloppy confidence.
"Bet he bites," one laughed, tapping a broken stick against his leg. "Go on. Bark."
Miller stood still.
The wolf inside him stirred. His eyes shifted before he could stop them—gold flashing through the shadow of his hood.
He growled. Not loudly.
Just enough.
The boys froze.
Fear replaced their smiles in an instant.
They turned and ran.
Miller waited until their footsteps faded. He breathed slowly, keeping the wolf from pushing further. It had been too easy to scare them. Too easy to slip into the instincts that came naturally to him now.
He tightened his hood and left the street behind. He didn't want to hurt humans—not unless they gave him a reason—but every day his control slipped a little more.
---
Not long after, he heard a cry echo from an alley. Sharp. Cut short.
He stopped and listened.
Three figures stood over a bleeding man. They moved with precision, blades drawn. The man tried to crawl back, smearing blood across the pavement.
Miller's eyes narrowed.
He knew the scent from where he stood.
Wolves.
Not shifted, but their smell was unmistakable.
He stepped quietly to the edge of the alley. The three wolves wore dark cloaks, hoods low, masks hiding much of their faces. Their stance was practiced—this wasn't robbery. It was a clean kill.
One lifted his blade.
Miller acted before the strike fell.
He crossed the alley in two long strides and slammed into the attacker, driving him into the wall hard enough to crack brick. The wolf snarled and swung at him, but Miller hit him before he finished the motion.
The other two spun, blades up. Their reactions were sharp. Controlled. These weren't random rogues—they had training.
One lunged. Miller sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted until bone snapped, and threw him aside. The third rushed in fast. Miller blocked with his forearm, then drove a knee into his stomach and shoved him backward.
They regrouped but didn't attack again.
Their eyes met his—masked, but their shock bled through.
They hadn't expected someone stronger. Someone faster.
One hissed, "Who is he?"
"Doesn't matter. Fall back," another answered.
They disappeared into the darkness, retreating fast.
Miller stood over the bleeding man, breathing hard. Blood trickled from a cut on his own arm, but he barely noticed. His focus stayed on the men's fading scent.
Wolves. Organized. Hidden. They moved with authority—and their eyes, the ones he glimpsed?
They looked like Kaelen's line.
The man on the ground whispered, "You… you're not human."
Miller stepped back.
He didn't answer.
By the time the man blinked, Miller had already melted into the shadows and left the alley behind.
But the fight stayed with him.
Someone from Kaelen's bloodline was alive. Active. Dangerous.
And still holding power.
The thought clenched his gut.
He left the alleys and returned to the outskirts of the city center. He needed answers, but he didn't know who to trust. He only knew there were wolves in the city—and they weren't acting like a pack. They were acting like enforcers.
---
Night fell again before anything else happened.
Miller crossed a quiet square, looking for another place to sleep. His shoulder still stung from the earlier scuffle, and hunger gnawed at him again.
He sensed the ambush before he saw it.
Boots scuffed stone in four directions.
Metal shifted.
Humans stepped out from behind pillars and dark corners.
Five of them—armored, disciplined. Their armor carried the symbol of a silver wolf's head. Their weapons were ready.
"Hold where you are," the leader said. "You match the description from the Old Quarter incident."
Miller said nothing.
"You assaulted House agents," another added. "You are to be brought in immediately."
House.
The same word he'd heard before.
They closed in.
"Don't make this harder," the leader warned. "Come quietly."
"No," Miller answered.
The first soldier moved. Miller caught his wrist and shoved him aside. A gun fired— the bullet grazed his ribs, sharp pain slicing through him. Another soldier tried to strike with a baton. Miller ducked under it and slammed into him with enough force to knock him out.
The others rushed him at once.
But they weren't fast enough.
Miller moved through them, using instinct and strength. He disarmed one, shoved another into a wall, crushed the breath from a third's lungs with a knee. Bullets cracked through the air, but none hit deep.
When the last soldier dropped, Miller stood over him, chest rising and falling.
He leaned down just enough for the man to hear.
"Tell your House," Miller growled, "that I'm not running from them."
Then he slipped into the shadows before reinforcements arrived.
---
The alarms started minutes later.
Vehicles raced through the streets, lights flashing. Soldiers spread through the city in tight groups. They searched alleys, rooftops, everything.
Miller watched them from the top of a low building. His ribs burned. His shoulder ached. Dried blood cracked along his arm.
He'd revealed himself twice in the same night.
The House knew there was a threat now.
He sat on the edge of the roof and tried to steady his breathing. The cold air helped clear his mind. His body felt different every day—stronger, sharper, harder to control. Whatever the shamans did to him before burying him, it didn't fade with time. It grew.
Below, the city kept moving. Humans yelled orders. Soldiers fanned out. Lanterns and spotlights cut across rooftops.
Miller pulled his hood lower.
He knew what came next.
The House wouldn't stop searching now. Wolves working in secret had seen him. Humans armed with silver-marked armor had fought him. And somewhere in the depths of the city, Kaelen's bloodline still lived.
He wasn't the frightened boy they once cursed.
He wasn't powerless anymore.
But strength alone didn't make him ready for war.
He needed more information.
He needed to learn how many wolves were left.
He needed to understand what the House really was.
And he needed to decide whether he would hide…
…or take the city from Kaelen's descendants piece by piece.
Miller tightened his fists.
This wouldn't end quietly.