Lupin led by example.
He closed his eyes, his breath lengthening and deepening, his entire presence settling like a tranquil mountain. Slowly, that dangerous aura unique to werewolves began to seep from his body—but he didn't transform, nor did he snarl or rage.
To an onlooker, he was just an ordinary man. Perhaps even frail, sitting quietly in the circle.
The children watched in fascination, huddled close but silent as mice.
They glanced at their fathers and uncles, who fumbled awkwardly to copy Lupin's posture.
Some werewolves knitted their brows, breath coming fast and shallow, unable to tame the violence inside.
Others sweated, their bodies trembling as if wrestling an invisible beast within.
Lupin was endlessly patient.
He would approach the most agitated, rest a gentle hand on their shoulder.
"Don't fight it. Flow with it."
"Anger is strength, but it isn't everything. Picture a river: you're not meant to dam it up, but to carve a channel—guide it where it needs to go."
His words carried a peace born of surviving the storm.
A peace more powerful than any barked command.
But the frenzied werewolf only grew wilder. With a snarl, red light flashed in his eyes, muscles bulging beneath his skin.
"A channel? I just want to build a dam! Seal this damned thing away forever!"
He slammed his fist into the cave wall—crack!—sending shards of stone flying.
The children shrank back, wide-eyed.
Lupin didn't flinch. He stepped closer, voice steady as ever.
"A dammed river becomes a flood that destroys everything. You've tried, haven't you? Every full moon, the dam shatters."
He met the werewolf's gaze, unwavering.
"Don't fear it. Feel it. Feel that power in your veins. It isn't your enemy—it's part of you. Now, try telling it where you want it to go."
Marco watched, silent, a realization dawning for the first time.
This British werewolf wasn't teaching them how to fight.
He was teaching them how to be human again.
They'd lived in the wild too long. The beast had overtaken the man.
The highest form of strength isn't release—it's control.
That truth echoed in Marco's mind like a bell.
At the same time, Marco showed the tribe what it meant to be an alpha.
He reorganized every able-bodied member.
The ten swiftest, most terrain-savvy youths became scouts—not warriors, but messengers riding the wind.
A handful of calm, older werewolves were put in charge of internal communications and defense.
The core fighters rested deep in the cave, a final line of defense.
Everything ran with crisp efficiency.
Marco summoned the scout leader.
"Remember: your job isn't to fight. It's to spread the message. Like dandelion seeds, scatter it to every corner of these mountains."
He unfurled an animal-hide map, marked with several key locations.
"Here—Griz the lone wolf's valley. He hates all packs."
"Here—the goblin smugglers' secret market. They hear news before the wind does."
"And here…" He pointed to a spot marked with a red crescent.
"The Red Moon Brotherhood's outer post. If the message reaches their ears, it'll be on their leader's desk by nightfall."
The scout leader nodded, jaw set.
"What should we say, Chief?"
Marco glanced at Douglas in the distance, then spoke in a low, steady voice.
"Say that Ashclaw has found hope."
"That a man named Remus Lupin has come, and the werewolf curse in his blood is being healed."
"That a wizard who works miracles will protect us."
It was a simple message. Direct. Irresistible.
For every werewolf lost in darkness, it was salvation.
For those in power, it was a gauntlet thrown.
"Wait."
Douglas's voice cut through the cave.
He strode over from the shadows, every eye turning to him.
"Words alone aren't enough."
His tone was low, but clear as the crack of a whip.
"For a beast like Greyback, scent is more real than any rumor."
He drew a tiny crystal vial from his robe.
In the firelight, it gleamed—inside, a single drop of dark red blood floated, encircled by a faint, shimmering aura.
Lupin's blood.
"I've used magic to amplify the 'information' in this drop."
Douglas handed the vial to the scout leader.
"At every place you leave the message, dip a pine needle in this—mark it somewhere only a beast would find."
"He'll smell the scent of his 'work.'"
Douglas's eyes turned cold as the mountain air.
"More than that, he'll smell that the curse in this blood—the curse that should have lasted forever—is fading."
"That will drive him mad."
Marco's pupils contracted. He understood in an instant.
This wasn't just a rumor or a piece of intelligence.
It was a declaration of war.
A direct, olfactory challenge to Fenrir Greyback's legacy as the source of the plague.
This would sting his twisted soul more than a thousand insults.
The scout leader's hand shook as he accepted the vial.
He wasn't holding blood—he was holding a powder keg, ready to blow.
The scouts set off, vanishing into the rugged mountain trails.
For a moment, the cave was quiet again.
But Douglas didn't rest.
He cleared a patch of ground in the main cavern, establishing a makeshift battlefield workshop.
No cauldrons, no rare potion ingredients.
Instead, he pulled from his enchanted bag: whetstones, silver files, mineral powders in every color, and a bundle of rune-etched leather strips.
He called for all the tribe's warriors to bring their battered weapons.
Some offered axes meant for chopping wood. Others, hunters' knives. A few, sharpened hardwood spears.
These weapons were rough, unrefined—tools of survival, not war.
Few werewolves had ever received formal magical training. For them, a wand was a luxury.
Douglas gathered the tribe's elders who knew a bit of magic and began to teach.
He picked up a woodcutter's axe, set it to the whetstone.
Scrape—scrape—
The sound of stone against steel echoed through the cave, steady and relentless.
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