The Circle though were already prepared. They had gathered at the underforge. They could not reveal their beast blood to the general public. That was the rule of The Circle.
"They're here faster than I expected" Skjor said in anger. "It hasn't even been two days since the previous bandit raid."
"They... want something. The damned creatures are always cautious. This is a first, even for them." Aela said, equally pissed.
"Unfortunately, with the strength of their group, we will need the beast blood to take care of this." Kodlak said glancing across the room with his deep eyes.
"Let's give them hell then!" Skjor growled as they all ran towards the entrance of the underforge.
Skjor transformed mid-stride, bursting through the underforge's stone doors. Bones cracked and reformed, fur erupting across his body as he roared, a sound that shook the street and turned heads even amid the carnage.
Aela followed a heartbeat later, her howl cutting through the din like a blade. A werepire met Skjor head-on.
The impact was like colliding storms.
Skjor's transformed bulk slammed into the creature, claws carving furrows through scarred flesh as both monsters skidded across the blood-slick stones. The werepire barely staggered before snapping its jaws shut inches from Skjor's throat. Fangs screeched against bone as Skjor wrenched its head aside and drove his knee upward, cracking ribs that immediately began knitting back together.
"Stubborn bastard!" Skjor roared, raking his claws down its chest.
The werepire laughed and answered with a headbutt that snapped Skjor's skull sideways and sent him crashing through a fruit stall. Wood exploded into splinters.
Aela hit the fray like an arrow loosed by Kyne herself.
She came down from above, claws extended, landing squarely on another werepire's back. Her momentum drove it face-first into the cobblestones hard enough to crater stone. Before it could rise, she seized its arm and twisted, its bone snapping with a sharp crack.
The creature didn't scream.
It turned its head far too far around and smiled at her.
Aela snarled and tore its throat out.
Blood sprayed hot across her fur, but even as the werepire collapsed, its body convulsed, muscles spasming as flesh crawled and reattached. It began to rise again.
"Not staying down!" Aela barked.
Vilkas and Farkas crashed in together.
Vilkas slammed his shoulder into the creature, knocking it back as Farkas brought his axe down in a brutal overhead arc. The silver blade bit deep, cleaving through collarbone and spine. The werepire finally fell still, body twitching weakly.
"Decapitate them!" Farkas shouted. "Or burn them!"
Across the street, another werepire tore through three guards, flinging one into a wall hard enough to shatter stone. It leapt for Aela—
—and was intercepted midair.
Skjor caught it by the throat.
He lifted the creature bodily and slammed it into the ground once, twice, a third time, each impact cracking the street. The werepire clawed at his arms, drawing furrows that smoked faintly, but Skjor's grip only tightened.
"You picked the wrong city," he growled.
The werepire's eyes glowed brighter, veins pulsing black and crimson as it bit down on Skjor's forearm.
Skjor roared in pain as corrupted blood burned through his veins. He staggered back, snarling, muscles spasming as the venom fought his beast blood.
The werepire rose, laughing again, blood pouring from its mouth.
Then an arrow punched clean through its eye.
Aela stood atop a broken cart, bow already drawn again. The bow seemed to be carved with ancient dwarven inscriptions that made it possible for it to withstand the strength of a fully transformed werewolf.
"Get away from him." she growled
The creature swayed and Vilkas took its head off.
Nearby, vampires moved to adapt.
They pulled back into tighter formations, blades coated with alchemical oils that hissed when they struck werewolf flesh. One hurled a sphere of condensed blood that detonated midair, blasting Farkas off his feet and leaving a crater in the street.
From the rooftops, more werepires dropped down, surrounding the Circle in a tightening ring.
Mistress Althene watched from a balcony, hands clasped behind her back, eyes alight with fascination.
"So the legends are true," she murmured. "The Companions still keep their beasts."
She raised two fingers.
The werepires howled synchronously and charged.
The Circle met them head-on.
Claws met claws. Fangs met fangs. The street became a maelstrom of fur, blood, and shattered stone.
Every kill took effort and every mistake drew blood.
Skjor staggered, shaking off the venom, then lunged back into the fray, tearing a werepire's arm clean off and beating it to the ground with its own limb.
Aela leapt from foe to foe, moving too fast to follow, ripping throats, snapping necks, never staying still long enough to be surrounded.
Vilkas and Farkas fought back-to-back, axes rising and falling in perfect rhythm, cutting down anything that got too close.
Still, the werepires kept coming.
The more they were pushed back, the more they adapted.
And above it all, Mistress Althene smiled hungrily as Whiterun burned and the night truly began.