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They say that when the full moon rises larger than ever, and the wind whispers forgotten names among the trees, it's because the Ancients are restless.
And among all the warnings kept by the night clans, there is one whispered with particular caution:
"Never trust a werewolf."
"Never trust a vampire."
Not because they're just bloodthirsty beasts, we all know that, but because even when they smile, even when they swear loyalty… their nature never stops howling, never stops craving blood.
Because vampires are cruel.
And werewolves… don’t know how to love.
That’s what they say.
It’s a story to scare children.
It’s history.
It’s legend.
It’s truth.
Or, at least, it was one version of it.
There are many versions of this story.
In the vampires’ version, it was the wolf who betrayed. In the werewolves’, it was the vampire. And so the tale repeats, over and over, like a wound that never heals.
But the real story… was never told properly.
Luka existed. And Rhys too.
But not as they believe.
So, why don’t we start from the beginning?
Rhys was the son of a nobleman.
A vampire of ancient lineage, marked by centuries of solemnity, traditions, and darkness. He grew up in a castle where blood was served in crystal goblets, where whispers were more common than laughter, and where death was treated with respect, almost like a lover.
But Rhys was different.
Since he was young, something inside him refused to accept the weight of his heritage. He felt a restlessness, a flame that pushed him toward the world beyond the stone walls. At fourteen, still young even for his kind, he began to sneak out in secret. He left behind the heavy tapestries, the ancestral rituals, and the eternal vigils of his family to lose himself in the forests.
He was fascinated by the dawn. He would hide among the trees, wrapped in cloaks, just to see the sky turn to gold. He was captivated by the laughter of humans, even though his heart no longer beat. He was fascinated by life… as the mortals lived it.
And even if he was punished upon return, locked away, watched… it was worth it.
It was on one of those escapades that he saw him for the first time.
Beyond a hill, on a slope where the trees grew twisted by the wind, there was a small farm. The house was modest, the crops seemed to struggle to survive in the hard soil. And there he was.
A tall boy, with unruly hair, hands roughened by work, and a focused expression. He spoke to the cornfield. Or rather, he scolded it, as if the plants could understand they weren’t growing well.
Rhys laughed out loud. It wasn’t wise, but he couldn’t help it.
—Do you seriously talk to your plants?—
He asked, still laughing, without thinking of the consequences.
The boy turned quickly. Bright eyes, body tense, alert like a wild animal. Then he frowned, visibly offended:
—And you mock someone who cares for what he loves?—
It wasn’t the best way to meet.
But it was enough.
Rhys apologized, awkwardly, but with a smile. And Luka, a bit uncomfortable, began to explain why talking to plants helped. That they grew better if they felt company. That sometimes, the earth listens.
The Vampire didn’t fully understand. But it didn’t matter. What caught him wasn’t the explanation, it was the passion in the boy’s voice. The life he radiated.
It didn’t take long for the obvious to become clear.
Luka was a werewolf. And Luka knew instantly that Rhys was a vampire.
Both knew what that meant. Enemies by nature. By history. By blood.
And yet… neither walked away.
Rhys returned the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Luka pretended he was just working in the fields. That he wasn’t waiting. But he was always there.
They walked together. Talked, laughed.
Luka taught him how to plant, how to read the sky, how to tell a fox from a wolf by the tracks. How to understand that the earth had its own cycles and secrets.
Rhys told him stories from forbidden books, secrets of the nocturnal nobility, ancient songs, words in forgotten tongues.
They shared whole seasons.
Summers full of light that Rhys could only enjoy under heavy cloaks and the shade of trees. Cold winters, where Luka would warm him with hand-cut firewood and handwoven blankets.
And from friendship… something more was born.
They didn’t say it out loud. They couldn’t.
To name it would have been to seal their fate.
But no secret lasts forever.
The night clans noticed Rhys’ absence. Someone followed him. Someone spoke.
Rumors became accusations. Accusations became sentence.
Friendship with a werewolf was betrayal.
Love… an unforgivable sin.
Rhys was imprisoned by his own family. His own brothers. They interrogated him, marked him, hurt him.
—Do you love him?—
They asked.
At this point, there was nothing left to deny.
—Yes—
He said.
—Would you protect him with your life?—
—…Yes.—
They beat him for that. For the truth.
Meanwhile, Luka felt the shift in the air. The silence. The cold. He knew something was wrong.
He waited.
And then he stopped waiting.
He ran.
Through the forests where they had laughed. The hills where they had dreamed. The fields they had cultivated together.
The wolf within him roared.
But he didn’t arrive in time.
When Luka arrived, Rhys was no longer breathing.
His body lay among the shadows of an ancestral altar, made for the secret executions of the old clans.
Pale skin. Still beautiful. Silent.
Dead.
The ashes had begun to cover the stone.
Luka dropped to his knees.
For the first time since he was a child, he cried like a human… and howled like a beast.
It wasn’t a cry for vengeance.
Not yet.
It was one of lost love.
Of absolute grief.
Something inside him broke.
A part of him died with Rhys. And what remained… was no longer entirely human.
The beast took control.
And when he found those who had taken what he loved… blood was spilled.
One by one, the guilty paid.
Not for vengeance.
But because the pain had nowhere else to go.
And so the story ended. Or so the legend began.
They say the clans still repeat the warning:
"Never trust a werewolf."
"Never trust a vampire."
In their versions, the wolves were betrayed. In theirs, the vampires were martyrs.
Both altered the truth.
But the truth… the one no one dares to tell…
Is that the vampire did trust.
And the wolf did love.
And both paid the price.
Some nights, when the moon rises like an open wound in the sky, they say a distant howl can be heard. Not of rage, but of loss.
A name, repeated in the wind.
The name of the one who was loved.
The name of the one who was lost.
Mason woke up. It was still night. His eyes stared at the ceiling of the cabin, breathing quietly, as if the slightest sound could shatter something fragile inside him.
Outside, the crickets sang insistently, and the forest seemed at peace under the soft light of the moon that filtered through the window and the curtains. The pale glow drew lines across the wooden walls, and the air smelled of damp earth and dry leaves.
He felt something cold slide down his cheek.
He slowly raised his hand.
Tears.
He was crying.
He didn’t know why.
He had dreamed of something… or someone.
Blurry moments. Laughter among trees, a field at sunset. And then… sadness. Loss. Loneliness.
The kind of emptiness left by an impossible absence. One you can’t even name.
The werewolf closed his eyes, trying to hold onto that memory that wasn’t entirely his, but burned as if it were.
He wiped the tears with the palm of his hand just as he felt a soft whimper beside him. The body next to him shifted slightly, like a quiet sigh in human form.
Kieran.
Still asleep, his breathing steady, his brow slightly furrowed, as if he too were trapped in some far-off corner of the past.
One of Mason’s hands rested on the vampire’s waist firm, warm, possessive in an unconscious gesture.
Mason looked at him in silence. And then he smiled.
He turned gently, seeking his scent, his closeness, wanting with all his being to erase the sensation left by that faceless nightmare.
What the dream said didn’t matter. The pain he couldn’t understand didn’t matter.
He had him. Now. Here.
And that was enough.
He nestled in, burying his face in his neck, listening to the vampire’s calm heartbeat. He let that sound envelop him, protect him. Until slowly, sleep pulled him back under.
This time, he didn’t dream of loss.
He dreamed of hands intertwined under the rain.
Of a promise unspoken, but fulfilled. Of a love that found itself beyond time.
“Maybe, in another life, I can be by your side”
Echoes of a distant past used to say.
But in this one…
They already were.