Marco sat ramrod straight, the firelight throwing restless shadows across his face. The proud alpha wolf—who had never bowed to defeat—now felt a powerlessness that cut deeper than any loss in battle.
Everything he'd fought for, everyone he'd sworn to protect—his tribe's worth, in the eyes of outsiders, had been reduced to nothing more than guides and helpers in someone else's hunt.
It was humiliation. But outside the cave, the muffled cries of the wounded and the soft sobbing of children washed over him like icy water, dousing the last embers of pride.
Pride couldn't heal the injured. Dignity wouldn't free the children from the curse of the wolf.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, only the resolve of a true leader remained.
"What makes you so sure you can handle him?" Marco asked, his voice low and steady.
"I've heard the stories—he's the most notorious werewolf Britain's seen in decades. A beast, a madman, a monster who takes pleasure in torture and boasts about spreading the curse."
Disgust laced every word, rising from the marrow of Marco's bones.
Lupin quietly undid his shirt cuff and rolled up his left sleeve. His arm was a map of old scars, but one mark—a vicious, long-healed bite—stood out among them. It was the kind of wound no child should ever bear.
"When I was five," Lupin said softly, his voice echoing through the stone chamber, "he found me."
"My father had crossed him, so he took revenge—like this."
"I know exactly what he is."
"And I want him gone from this world more than anyone."
That calm confession carried more weight than any furious outburst.
Marco stared at the bite on Lupin's arm, then met the gentle eyes blazing with the fire of vengeance. The last of his doubts vanished.
This wasn't business. This was retribution.
And a hunt led by the wronged was always the deadliest.
"There have been rumors," Marco continued, "that he's connected to the Red Moon Brotherhood."
"Red Moon Brotherhood?" Lupin lowered his sleeve. "Isabella mentioned them. Who are they, really?"
"A pack of rabble!" Marco spat, contempt clear in his tone. "Vampires cast out by their own kind, dark wizards skulking in the shadows, and a few of our own who've forgotten the honor of the wolf. They call themselves a brotherhood, but they're just another plague in the Apennines—more insidious than the Church."
Douglas tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "And their goal?"
"A ridiculous dream." Marco let out a cold laugh. "Their leader fancies himself another Grindelwald—preaching blood supremacy, dreaming of making the world kneel at his feet. Just a bunch of lunatics."
"So if Greyback comes to Italy, he'll likely seek their support," Douglas said, cutting to the heart of the matter.
Lupin met Marco's gaze, his voice quiet but unyielding. "Greyback must be stopped."
"Every day he lives, more innocents suffer. Every day, our kind's reputation sinks lower."
There was a finality in those words—a hunter's resolve.
He, Remus Lupin, had clawed his way out of self-loathing. He would not let the source of his torment poison the world he'd only just begun to reclaim.
Marco turned to Douglas again, the wolf's resolve burning in his eyes.
"If you can help my people," he said, each word etched into the stone table, "I'll give you everything I know about Greyback and the Red Moon Brotherhood. And I'll help you, as much as I'm able."
"Good. We have a deal," Douglas replied at once, leaving no room for hesitation. "Time's short. We need to cripple or kill Greyback before the next full moon."
He leaned forward, an invisible pressure filling the cave.
"If he gets a chance to regroup—or fully joins forces with the Red Moon Brotherhood—he'll vanish, and finding him again will be much harder."
Marco's face hardened; he knew exactly what was at stake.
Douglas nodded, then his gaze sharpened on Marco. "But I need more than words. In your tribe's current state, how many fighters can you spare?"
Marco's expression darkened. The resolve in his voice didn't hide the reality of their predicament. "Holy light and curses have cut down half our warriors. But as long as my people can stand, we won't back down…"
He trailed off, suddenly remembering: Aldo's wounds had been healed by this man.
With a glimmer of hope, he looked at Douglas. "You mean…?"
Douglas met Marco's look—a face caught between hope and despair—and let a confident smile curve his lips.
"I can heal your wounds. If you're willing, I'll try."
Marco's face lit up. He sprang to his feet, quickly explaining, "From the moment I invited you, I never doubted your abilities! I trust Isabella's judgment!"
Lupin stood too, a smile on his lips as he clapped Marco's shoulder. "But you've got to show your people real hope, don't you? I swear on my own scars—Douglas is a master at treating magical injuries! Don't forget, he's Hogwarts' Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts."
As they spoke, the group moved toward a stone chamber, pushing aside a heavy curtain of animal hide.
A wave of stifling air—thick with the stench of blood, rot, and desperate herbal concoctions—hit them like a wall.
Behind the curtain was a vision of hell.
This was the Ashclaw tribe's "infirmary."
More than a dozen grievously wounded werewolves lay on makeshift beds of straw and hides, their low moans and ragged breaths weaving a symphony of pain.
Their wounds were grotesque.
Some edges were charred black, as if seared by hot iron, faint traces of holy light lingering and thwarting all healing.
Others oozed dark, putrid pus—the mark of black magic curses.
An elderly woman, her hair silver and her face as wrinkled as a walnut shell, moved unsteadily among the wounded.
She was the tribe's healer, Elena.
In her hands was a stone bowl, filled with a deep green paste of moss and herbs.
She carefully applied the mixture to a young man's mangled arm, but the blackened flesh only faded for a moment before the corruption stubbornly returned.
Weariness and sorrow etched every line of Elena's face.
Marco locked eyes with Douglas, desperation and hope mingling in his gaze.
"Professor, this healing you spoke of…"
He couldn't help picturing the mysterious Potions Master producing vials of glowing magical elixirs, pouring them like rain over his dying kin.
But Douglas didn't answer right away.
He surveyed every injured werewolf, his eyes as calm and detached as a surgeon making hospital rounds—showing neither pity nor alarm.
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