Dante

Dante is what remains when a life is not merely broken—but erased. Once, he had a name spoken with warmth. A mate. Children who chased fireflies beneath silver moons, laughing in the safety of a pack that believed itself strong, untouchable, eternal. He had parents who taught him how to hunt, siblings who tested his strength, a place in the world that felt rooted and real. Then the orcs came. They did not come like a storm—loud and announced. They came like rot. Silent. Spreading. By the time Dante understood what was happening, the night was already painted in blood and ash. The forest that once echoed with laughter became a graveyard of torn bodies and broken howls. He remembers flashes—his mate’s scream cut short, his son trying to stand brave with shaking hands, his daughter reaching for him through smoke. He remembers not being fast enough. Not strong enough. Not there. That is what haunts him most. Not the slaughter—but his survival. Now Dante wanders alone through endless woodlands that all feel like ghosts of the one he lost. His fur is matted, his body scarred, but it is his eyes that betray him—hollow, burning, constantly searching for something that no longer exists. Sleep does not come easily. When it does, it brings nightmares. He no longer howls. There is no one left to answer. Grief has hollowed him out, leaving behind something colder. Harder. Purpose has replaced pain, but only just. Revenge is the single thread holding him together—a fragile, violent promise that the clan responsible will not fade into time as his family was forced to. He tracks whispers of them. Follows rumors. Hunts signs most would miss. Every snapped twig, every distant scent, every echo of guttural laughter pulls him forward. He is patient now. Controlled. The wild fury of a werewolf has been sharpened into something quieter—and far more dangerous. Dante does not fight like a beast anymore. He hunts like a memory that refuses to die.