The lanterns lining the quiet alley flickered in the wind as Siera adjusted the hood of her grey cloak. Catelyn walked beside her in silence, her posture stiff, ever vigilant. Though the city lay under a blanket of darkness, its corners whispered of secrets, of fear, and of stories that refused to die.
They had passed three taverns, two empty shrines, and the abandoned well near the southern wall before Catelyn finally spoke. “We’ve asked half a dozen people tonight. All afraid. All silent. No one dares to speak of werewolves unless it’s with spitting curses.”
“I know,” Siera murmured. “The truth’s been buried so long, no one remembers what it looked like.”
“Or they remember but choose to forget,” Catelyn added, her tone edged with frustration.
Siera didn’t respond. Her eyes scanned the shadows ahead, seeking something that couldn’t be found with mere sight. Their destination wasn’t marked on any map. It had come from an old, unpublished book she had discovered hidden behind a false panel at the city library—its pages dust-laden, its ink faded, and its language archaic, written in the ancient tongue used long before the current monarchy. She had spent days waiting the book to be translated with the help of an old lexicon, each phrase unraveling a truth too dangerous to name. A truth someone once tried to erase completely from history.
But there was more to it than that. The werewolf history hadn’t been buried because of the rise of dark magic. No, that came much later. The werewolf truth had been erased long before the dark magic took hold of the land—before the curse of destruction that killed so many, altering the very fabric of the world. The monarchy had suppressed the knowledge of werewolves long ago, perhaps in an effort to maintain power and keep the population from questioning their control. Fear of the unknown, of the supernatural, had led the rulers to cast the truth aside, branding it as heresy. Over time, it was easier for people to forget, even if some of them remembered.
It was that same fear—of not just the werewolves, but the ripple effects of uncovering dangerous truths—that had kept the knowledge buried for generations. The name "Neron" had first surfaced in Siera's mind not from whispered rumors or court secrets, but from a peculiar footnote in the old, unpublished book she had unearthed in the library. She hadn’t been alone in decoding it—the old librarian, who had once studied ancient texts in the royal archives, helped her navigate the archaic symbols and sentence structures. The original writer of the book had died decades ago, but in one of the librarian’s private notes, he mentioned that the writer’s descendants still lived in the city, quietly running trades with no association to the scholarly world.
One of the translated sections, written in the ancient tongue, referred obliquely to "the last keeper of the quill"—a title later cross-referenced in a marginal annotation with the name Neron. The book didn’t mention him directly, but it held a cryptic map and a riddle about the “man beneath the cobbler’s roof,” guiding her path. With each phrase they translated using the ancient lexicon, a hidden trail of clues emerged, drawing Siera deeper into truths long hidden. And the more she pieced together, the more she understood why Neron, the last living descendant of the truth’s keepers, had hidden the story for so long.
They finally stopped in front of a humble cobbler’s shop, nestled between a spice warehouse and a dried fish merchant. No one would have looked twice at it. The wooden sign creaked in the wind, and the door bore years of dust and forgotten attention.
Catelyn knocked twice, paused, then once more.
Moments passed.
Then the door creaked open, revealing a man with sunken eyes and silver-threaded hair. He looked no more dangerous than the lantern behind him. But his gaze lingered too long on Siera’s face beneath the shadow of her hood.
He studied her for a long moment, then murmured cautiously, “People like you don’t usually come here.”
“We were told you know the truth,.. of werewolves” Siera replied.
“The truth has a price. And it’s not one I’m willing to pay again.”
He moved to close the door, but Siera stepped forward. “I am not here to start a war. I’m here to end one. But I need what you carry.”
His eyes narrowed. “And who are you to demand anything from me?”
Siera removed her hood slowly. “I’m the queen.”
A sharp intake of breath. Catelyn reached for her hidden blade.
But the man did not move. He stared at her, something between fear and awe flickering in his gaze. “You’re the reason the city trembles. The reason they say the beast sits on the throne.”
“No," Siera said firmly. "He is not a beast, he has never lost himself—not once. Not even to the beast within. Gwi is stronger than the curse they whisper about. He has always had control. Only once did something darker override that strength—and it was not his choice. It was magic. Foul and forced.”
He stared a moment longer, then his gaze darkened with suspicion. "You don't know what you're asking," he muttered. "Truth isn't a gift. It's a burden."
Siera held his gaze. "A burden I’m prepared to carry."
He shook his head slowly. "Do you think you’re the first who’s come seeking answers? People came before. Some desperate, some arrogant. None left unchanged. Some never left at all."
"Then let me be the first to leave with purpose," she said quietly. "Not to use it for power, not to stir chaos—but to end it."
Still he hesitated. His fingers curled around the edge of the door, as if it pained him to even consider.
"I’ve lived in the silence of truth too long," he murmured. "Each year, the world forgets a little more. It’s safer that way. Safer for me. Safer for the truth."
Siera stepped forward, letting the lantern catch her face just slightly beneath the hood. "I didn’t come to tear down walls. Just to find the foundation beneath them. And if you still believe your ancestor wrote something that mattered, then don’t let it die with you."
A beat passed. Then another.
Finally, the man exhaled, voice barely audible. "Inside. Speak quietly."
The interior smelled of ink and leather. Bookshelves lined the walls, each shelf crooked with age. A single oil lamp lit the room. He gestured toward a small table.
“I am Neron,” he said. “Last of the line that wrote the truth. My ancestor penned the tale that was hidden by kings and burned by priests. I’ve guarded it, but never spoken it aloud.”
“Why?”
“Because truth invites death. And I have no heirs to suffer that fate.”
Siera leaned forward. “Then help me rewrite what was broken. Whisper it into the wind so the people remember that not all monsters walk on paws, and not all kings with fangs are cursed.”
He hesitated, his hand resting on the edge of the table. His eyes dropped to the floor, to a spot he seemed to have visited in thought a thousand times but never dared to return in action.
"You think knowing will save you," he murmured. "But sometimes, ignorance is the only peace the living are allowed."
Siera remained still, her silence deliberate, allowing the tension to stretch like a taut string between them. Her presence did not demand—only waited.
He sighed, deeply. "They told me no one would come. Not anymore. Not after the last one vanished."
Catelyn’s fingers tightened slightly where they rested against her cloak.
Siera spoke, her voice soft but firm. "Maybe they were wrong. Maybe the time for silence has passed."
He studied her again, his eyes flicking between the queen and the parchment-strewn shelves. Then, as if releasing a breath he'd been holding for years, he moved.
Slowly, he crossed to the far corner of the room, knelt, and pried open a warped floorboard. Beneath it, swaddled in faded linen and dried lavender sprigs, lay a roll of brittle parchment.
His fingers trembled as he lifted it out. "Once this is unrolled, there’s no turning back."
They worked through the night, condensing truths into readable fragments—truths that had long been silenced by royal decree and religious fear. Catelyn transcribed while Siera edited with a meticulous eye, shaping each sentence not only for clarity, but for emotional resonance. Neron watched, silent but burning with purpose, occasionally stepping forward to correct a date, a name, a phrase too softened by time.
Each leaflet carried a different part of the story. One told of the first werewolf healer who used his strength to protect human villages during the famine. Another detailed the royal edict centuries ago that ordered the erasure of werewolf bloodlines from noble houses. One bore a personal testimony—an anonymized account of a palace guard who owed his life to the very werewolf the kingdom now feared. Each leaflet ended the same way: with a question.
"If fear can be taught, can understanding be learned?"
They produced a dozen such leaflets—carefully worded, each one crafted to challenge fear with curiosity, and to stir the soul rather than ignite rebellion.