They tell their children not to wander after dusk.
They carve charms from iron and hang them over their doors. They whisper prayers before they step into the trees, for in the valley, the shadows do not sleep.
To humans, the war wolves are not tribes, not families, not heirs of an ancient bloodline. They are demons cloaked in fur, nightmares with fangs, curses that walk on two legs when the moon rises.
Hunters know this truth best of all.
The men who take up the hunt speak of rituals before they leave: fasting, prayer, blood-oaths sworn under the moon. They say only steel dipped in silver can pierce a wolf’s heart. They say the beasts can smell fear, and so the hunters choke it down like poison.
But every hunter knows courage does not silence the dark. Many who march into the forest never march back out.
Still, they return. Again and again, generation after generation, driven by fear and pride and the hope that one kill will turn the tide.
Yet the valley remains. The wolves remain. And though humans call them cursed, though they pray to be freed of them, a deeper truth lingers:
Fear is the wolves’ greatest weapon. And fear never dies.
The hunters say the wolves are monsters. The wolves say the hunters are prey. The valley says nothing it only drinks the blood of both.
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