I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Two: Fog
Waking up after being tranquilized isn't like waking up at all. It's more like clawing your way out of something deep and freezing, as if your consciousness has been trapped beneath the surface of a frozen lake, buried beneath layers of ice and silence. Everything is heavy. Distant. Muffled. And rising from it takes effort, like dragging your limbs through syrup, like remembering how to breathe.
My eyelids fluttered open, slow and reluctant. The ceiling above me swam into focus—dull beige, stained with time and moisture, speckled with shadows. The kind of ceiling you only ever see in cheap roadside motels, where every corner tells a story you'd rather not know. A single wall sconce buzzed faintly, casting a weak, flickering light that made the corners of the room seem even darker. Everything smelled like bleach and old smoke and a thousand unfamiliar people.
The mattress beneath me was hard and unforgiving, wrapped in a polyester sheet that crinkled against my skin. It smelled sterile, almost aggressively so—like someone had tried too hard to erase the memories of whoever had been here before me. But underneath that harsh, chemical scent, there was something else. A hint of unease. Of transition. Motel.
I pushed myself up, every muscle protesting. My body was slow to respond, dulled and heavy from whatever was used to knock me out. A distant ache radiated from my joints, like I'd slept wrong on every part of my body at once. My head, at least, was starting to clear, though not quickly enough for comfort.
And then I realized—I wasn't alone.
He stood silently near the door, a presence I hadn't sensed until that moment. Motionless. Watching.
He looked to be in his mid-fifties, but there was no softness to him. He was built like someone who took discipline seriously, the kind of man who started every day before dawn and didn't make excuses. Military, or something like it. His dark hair was buzzed close to the scalp, streaked with gray. His jaw was square and set with quiet confidence. His eyes—sharp, cool, calculating—were framed with crow's feet that spoke of experience, not age.
He wore black jeans, black boots, a black leather jacket that creaked quietly as he breathed. And he didn't move. Not a twitch. Just stood there, eyes locked on me, the way someone might regard a dangerous animal behind glass—not afraid, but respectful of what it could do if provoked.
I said nothing. Made no sound. I observed.
My eyes darted around the room. Curtains drawn, windows sealed tight. No weapons in sight, at least not obvious ones. But he didn't need them. Everything about his stance said he was capable—more than capable. He was confident in his ability to act, if needed. And yet, despite everything, my heart didn't race. No panic. No rush of adrenaline. Just a strange, grounded calm. An alert stillness, like I'd trained for this. Like it was built into me. And that, more than anything, was the most unnatural part.
I was six. I shouldn't have felt this way.
He broke the silence with a voice that was quiet but carried weight.
"You're pretty calm for a kid who just got kidnapped."
I blinked. Still watching. Still measuring him. No fear. No confusion. Just... curiosity. And something else.
Because the longer I looked at him, the more certain I became.
"You don't smell like a threat," I said, my voice hoarse but steady. "You smell like... kindness. And concern."
That made him smile—a small, surprised grin, lopsided and amused. "Huh. I've met grown werewolves with less developed senses than that."
Werewolves.
The word slammed into me with the force of a truck, knocking the breath out of my lungs. Not physically, but deep inside—something ancient, primal, stirred.
Werewolf?
I should've laughed. Should've scoffed or denied or run screaming from the absurdity of it. But I didn't. I couldn't.
Because the moment he said the word, something shifted. Like he had spoken a spell. Like he'd handed me the last page of a book I didn't know I'd been reading. And suddenly, all the pieces that never quite fit before—the heightened senses, the bursts of strength, the outbursts of rage that came from nowhere—clicked into place.
"I'm a... werewolf," I said, the words barely a whisper.
But it wasn't a question. It was a recognition. A truth that had always been buried inside me, curled up and asleep, just waiting for someone to speak its name and wake it.
He was studying me closely now, gauging my reaction. Looking for cracks.
"You didn't flinch," he said quietly.
"I didn't need to." I glanced down at my palm, where the dart had struck me. A small red welt. Faint, but still there. "Why?"
He shrugged with a kind of tired honesty and offered a crooked grin. "Why? Because you're a six-year-old werewolf living in a packed orphanage. One day soon, probably during a full moon, you're going to lose control. And when that happens, people are going to get hurt. Maybe even you."
He said it like it was just a fact. Not a threat. Not an accusation. Just the truth, plain and heavy.
There was no malice in his voice. Only concern. Like he wasn't just trying to explain—he was trying to protect me from what was coming.
"You're lucky I found you first," he said. "This could've gone bad. Real bad."
I didn't nod because I trusted him. I nodded because what he said made sense. It was logical. It fit.
I looked him over once more. "Are you a werewolf too?"
That lopsided smile widened. "What do you think?"
I inhaled deeply. Focused. No scent of blood or fur or wildness. No sulfur, no rot. Just leather, oil, pine soap, and something calm and watchful. Not predator. Not prey. Something... else.
"You don't smell like me," I said at last.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Smart. No, I'm not. I'm a hunter."
The word tasted strange. Heavy with implications I didn't yet understand.
"A hunter?" I echoed, uncertain.
"That's a question for another time," he replied. He turned toward the door, his tone gentle. "You've been through enough for one day. Get some rest. We'll talk more when you're ready."
His hand reached for the doorknob, but he paused before leaving, turning back one last time.
"For what it's worth, Lucas... I don't think you're some kind of problem child. I think you're something special."
And then, without waiting for a response, he stepped out.
The door shut softly behind him.
I lay back down on the coarse sheets, staring up at that tired old ceiling. My mind felt like it was spinning in every direction at once—full of questions I didn't yet know how to ask, and answers I wasn't sure I was ready to hear.
Werewolf. Hunter. Dart. Secrets.
The world wasn't what I thought it was.
But I'd learn.
I had to.