Prolog: 1389

The darkened night sky lights up in a mixed color of black and pink as the lighting strikes between the hardened rain falling from the sky. It was chaos at the surface of the earth where blood spilled right and left while screams of pain and anger hung in the air like a lullaby for nightmares. Humans are packed with raincoats mixed with blood on their bodies, bows, swords on their hands, and arrows on their backs, slicing through everything they deem the enemy.

There are more than just humans on the said land. There are those with darkened and wet fur, walking on all four with blood dripping down their muzzle as they jump from one flesh to another, size more prominent than a normal creature is usually referring to and known by many as a wolf.

But werewolves are what they indeed are. Breed of pure big-sized wolves that can turn into a human form as it was also part of their being, whenever they are pleasing to be. Not controlled by the moon nor weakened by it. They are the owner of the night, the daywalker, and the guardian of all the forests around the world.

The werewolf is the limitation created by the universe to stop humans from taking too much than they are expected to take, to prevent them from being too greedy and destroying nature as a whole—and thus, just like anything that is meant to be a limit for humans; they tend to hate it. They will try to find a way around it as if greed is what flowing inside their body in the place where blood should be.

It was chaos down there. Arrows pierced the wolf's flesh, sharp teeth tearing the meat of the human. No one wants to back down now—not when the peace is at stake, not when it is all no longer about the forbidden love that started the war but more to the repressed feelings both parties held for years of fake truce that finally make itself known at the face of conflict.

Among all that chaos, a woman with a long white dress painted red on a few parts by natural blood that she cannot even remember whether it was from her side or his side and torn by either tree branches around or an arrow meant for anyone—run across the field in a hurry. She only has her eyes on one big bad wolf. One that has been calling her his and running to her until the end of his time. She had been running from her side to meet him, but the force that she had to face with her fragile state of body for her hand to touch his fur made her reach him too late.

His black fur looks almost navy in some parts where the moonlight hits the rain and is torn, so that blood sticks on it like glue to keep it whole. Its chest heaves up and down very slowly and takes too many seconds in between. One of its eyes is closed as a wound prevents it from functioning well, but the other one is wide open—the silver orbs shine bright as it catches the sight of the woman he comes to love, reaching out to him.

Under the wolf's arm, her body can easily be crushed by its size, but she finds no fear in that—only warmth that she lacks from the touch of humans. Whenever the wolf nudges at her, it's hard not to lose footing, but she never fears falling because he will catch her, and it's an absolute thing for both of them. Among all creatures she comes to know in her short span of life as a human, he is the only one that is worth all the scars.

When she finally reaches him, falling down to her knees as she cups the cheek of the animal—he must have found comfort in the fact that he can feel her touch on his fur; he decided to close his eyes and give in to all the pains.

"No, no, no!" she chanted, holding his head close to her arm while rubbing its battered face as softly as she managed with her equally battered fingers.

The pleading was whispered so softly and in desperation that it burned into the wolf's heart and spread through its whole body, creating a sensation of warmth that he recognized as her—more robust than it usually felt since the body started to become cold. Yet, he still can't open his eyes. She feels far away despite literally having her hands on his face.

All she ever wants is to run with him, to follow him wherever he wants to go as much as the other will follow her whenever she wishes to be, to do everything together, to explore the world hand in hand. But here they are; instead, one is dying while the other dies inside as he slips off her fingers like sand.

Without even having the chance to see those pair of silver orbs again, the wolf stopped breathing just like that, and she was left helpless and freezing—by the cold of the rain and the realization that something within her had been pulled out of her chest so harshly that it left her empty. It killed her in a way her eyes lost their shine as she looked up from her lover's dead body to stare at everyone involved in the war around her.

The tears stopped, the sobs died down, and the eyes hardened. The woman looks down at the wolf once more and gives it a last soft peck on its upper nose, then pull the sword on its back like it was easy—as if she feels nothing. She rises from the ground then, and with a fire in her eyes that even the hardest rain cannot extinguish, she storms to the chaos among her.

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