Bernard Brunstead POV
My name is Bernard Brunstead.
I'm twenty-seven years old. Six foot eight. Broad-shouldered, heavy-set—the kind of bara build that turns heads whether I want it to or not. Years of hauling crates, drawing heavy bows, and dragging carcasses out of the forest have left their mark on me. Thick arms. Solid legs. A body built for endurance rather than speed.
Short black hair. A full beard I keep trimmed out of habit more than vanity. A face that looks stern even when I'm relaxed, like I'm always on the verge of telling someone to leave me alone.
People in Bareshade think I look intimidating.
I've heard it my whole life. Mothers pulling their kids a little closer. Drunks thinking twice before starting trouble in my shop. Outsiders assuming I'm the kind of man who solves problems with fists first and words never.
The truth is… I'm just tired.
Tired of being looked at like a warning sign. Tired of swallowing words because they'd make things harder than they already are.
I was born here. Raised here. Bareshade is the kind of village that doesn't change because it doesn't want to. Change is a threat. Outsiders are dangers waiting to happen. Magic is something you tolerate only when it's useful and quietly resent when it isn't.
Anyone different becomes something to be watched.
Measured.
Judged.
So I learned early how to fit inside narrow expectations—how to stand just right, speak just enough, and keep the parts of myself that didn't belong here buried where no one could see them.
By day, I run my own general store. It's nothing special—dry goods, tools, supplies for hunters and farmers—but it keeps me rooted. It keeps people talking to me like I belong. It gives them a reason to see me as useful, which in Bareshade passes for acceptance.
I keep regular hours. I smile when it's expected. I listen to complaints about weather, prices, and outsiders like it's all harmless noise. The store is routine. Predictable. Safe.
By choice, I hunt.
Mostly on weekends—when the village slows down and expects less of me. When I can disappear before dawn and come back smelling of pine and blood instead of dust and coin. The forest is where I breathe, where my shoulders finally drop and my thoughts stop circling the same old fears.
I use a bow, reinforced with simple magic. Nothing flashy. Tracking spells that sink into footprints and broken branches. Supersensory charms that sharpen sight and hearing just enough to keep me alive. The kind of practical magic hunters pass down quietly, because it works and doesn't scare people too much.
Out there, strength matters. Awareness matters. Patience matters.
Not who you love.
Not where you came from.
I've always preferred that.
I didn't always hunt alone.
When I was younger, there were three of us.
Me. Logan. And Caleb.
Back then, the forest felt almost kind. Familiar trails. Predictable dangers. We were young enough to believe that if we stuck together, nothing truly bad could happen to us.
Caleb was the first one the forest took from us.
He was bitten.
At first, it was small things—missed time, strange looks, the way his hands shook whenever the moon grew full. We didn't understand what it meant. We didn't want to. In Bareshade, curses were stories you told children, not something that happened to people you loved.
By the time the truth became impossible to ignore, it was already too late.
I can still see him, standing there under moonlight that felt too bright, too cold. Still hear my own breathing when I realized there was no saving him.
I was the one with the bow.
I was the one who understood what had to be done.
I still remember the night I put an arrow through his heart.
I still remember his face.
After that, I never hunted alone again.
And I never hunted without Logan.
The forest took something from both of us that night. Fear. Innocence. Whatever belief we had that strength alone would protect us. Hunting stopped being a pastime and became something else—something shared, something heavy.
If I was going into the woods, Logan was there.
And if Logan went, I followed.
Always.
I don't hunt for sport. I hunt because I know what happens when monsters are left alone.
Logan was there after.
He didn't know what to say—never did—but he stayed. Sat beside me while the night stretched on and the forest slowly went quiet again. He didn't try to fix anything. Didn't offer hollow words or awkward comfort. He just put a rough, calloused hand on my shoulder and kept it there, steady and warm, like that alone was enough to anchor me to the world.
It was.
For a long time, that was all I needed.
Somewhere along the way—quietly, without ceremony—my gratitude turned into something else.
Love.
It crept in slowly, hiding in shared hunts and long silences, in the way he always walked half a step ahead of me without realizing it, in the way he trusted me to watch his back without ever having to ask.
Quiet.
Unspoken.
Carefully buried.
Bareshade isn't kind to people like that. And Logan—angry, awkward, rough around the edges—looked straight enough that I convinced myself it was safer to keep my feelings to myself. Safer for him. Safer for me. Safer for both of us in a place that liked its lines clear and its answers simple.
So I did what I always do.
I supported him.
When the village pushed him, I stood beside him, wordless and immovable. When he worked as a lumberjack, when he hunted to clear his head, I was there—matching his pace, sharing the weight, never asking for more than he could give. When he was pressured into marriage, I told myself it was how things were meant to be. That wanting anything else was selfish.
Watching him get married hurt more than I thought anything could.
I smiled. I congratulated him.
Then I drank.
I wasn't sober for a week.
When the marriage fell apart—when his wife cheated and blamed him for being difficult, for being too much—I felt relief before I could stop myself.
And then guilt for feeling it.
So I stayed quiet.
Again.
I told myself wishing him happiness was enough.
Then the howls started.
Not the distant kind you could ignore. Not the lonely cries of normal wolves echoing off the hills.
These were coordinated. Layered. Close enough that I could tell where one ended and another began.
I knew what they were the moment I heard them.
Too many.
Too close.
Too deliberate.
An alpha.
The realization settled into me like a weight I'd been carrying my whole life without knowing it. The kind of threat that didn't wander by accident. The kind that stayed, watched, waited.
Logan didn't talk much when he decided to deal with it himself. He never does when he's made up his mind. Anger sharpens him. Gives him direction. He doesn't debate it—he acts.
He just grabbed his gear and headed for the forest like it was another problem he could solve with muscle and anger.
I found out after he'd already gone.
Someone said his name in passing. Too casually. Said he was heading straight for the deep woods, like it was just another hunt and not a death wish.
My blood went cold.
Not because I didn't trust his strength.
Because I knew exactly what kind of man Logan became when he was hurt, when he was angry, when he thought throwing himself at danger was the only way to feel in control again.
I didn't ask why.
I didn't need to.
I didn't hesitate.
My hands moved on their own—bow, quiver, charm pouch. Muscle memory layered over years of shared hunts. I whispered a tracking spell, felt it latch onto the familiar weight of his presence, and ran.
Branches tore at my arms as I crossed the boundary into the forest, breath burning, heart pounding with a single, stupid certainty.
Whatever waited in those woods—
Whatever kind of monster had decided Bareshade was worth haunting—
Logan wouldn't face it alone.
Logan McGrath POV
My name is Logan McGrath.
I'm twenty-eight years old. Six foot eight. Big enough that doorframes and furniture have always felt like suggestions rather than limits. Built like the kind of problem people cross the street to avoid—broad chest, thick arms, hands permanently rough and scarred from years of splitting logs and shaping wood into something that could actually hold weight.
My body makes sense to me. Work goes in. Strength comes out.
Fierce green eyes, I've been told. Short, messy red hair that never stays put no matter how many times I cut it, and a full beard I stopped caring about grooming a long time ago. There never seemed much point. People had already decided what kind of man I was the moment they looked at me.
I know what I look like.
I know the scowl doesn't help.
It settles on my face without me meaning it to, especially when I'm thinking too hard or trying not to say the wrong thing. Most folks read it as anger. Some read it as a warning.
People think I'm angry all the time.
Sometimes they're right.
Most of the time, though, I'm just bad at the parts of living that don't involve muscle or motion. I don't know how to soften my expression, how to make my thoughts sound less sharp once they leave my mouth.
The truth is… I just don't know what to do with my face.
Or my feelings.
I grew up in Bareshade, same as Bernard. Same dirt roads worn down by generations that never left. Same narrow thinking passed from parent to child like it was common sense. Same rules you weren't allowed to question unless you wanted trouble—spoken or otherwise. You worked hard, kept your head down, didn't ask for more than what was put in front of you, and didn't stray too far from what people expected of you.
I never did subtle very well.
I tried, when I was younger. Tried to smooth my edges, tried to bite back my temper, tried to pretend I didn't feel like I was suffocating half the time. It never stuck. Bareshade doesn't like men who stand out, and I stood out whether I wanted to or not.
So I leaned into the work.
I work as a lumberjack. Carpenter too, when someone needs a roof fixed, a beam replaced, or a wall reinforced. It's honest work. Heavy work. The kind that leaves your muscles burning and your hands too tired to shake.
I like wood.
It makes sense.
You hit it hard enough, long enough, with the right angle and the right force, and it changes. You can see the results of your effort laid out in front of you—logs split clean, boards shaped true, something broken turned into something that holds weight.
No guessing.
No second-guessing.
Simple.
Clean.
On weekends, I hunt.
Not because I have to—because I want to. Because being out there, away from walls and expectations, clears my head in a way nothing else does. Because swinging an axe or tracking prey through dirt and underbrush burns off the edge that builds up when I spend too much time around people, rules, and things I don't know how to say out loud.
I don't hunt alone.
I hunt with Bernard.
Have for years now, to the point where it feels wrong to step into the forest without him at my side. Our rhythm settled in naturally—no talking needed, no signals beyond the smallest shifts in posture. He moves like water, quiet and deliberate, while I'm all weight and force. Somehow, it works.
He's the only person in Bareshade who can put up with me for long without either of us snapping. Calm where I'm rough. Quiet where I'm loud. Where my temper flares hot and fast, he grounds it without ever calling me out on it. He watches my blind spots without pointing them out, covers my mistakes before I even realize I've made them.
And I trust him with my back without thinking twice.
That kind of trust doesn't come easy. Not for me.
I know my temper's a problem.
I know I'm difficult to be around—too blunt, too loud, too quick to anger when things don't make sense in my head.
Bernard knows it too.
And he stays anyway.
He doesn't flinch when I snap. Doesn't walk away when I go quiet. He just stays there, solid and patient, like he's decided I'm worth the trouble.
That means more to me than I know how to say.
Because of how Bareshade is—because of how I am—I never thought about him as anything other than my best friend. My hunting partner. The one person I could rely on when everything else went to shit.
I never questioned it.
Didn't know how.
Didn't think I was allowed to.
So when the village started pushing me to settle down, to get married, to stop being such a problem… I let it happen.
I didn't fight it. Didn't question it. Everyone said the same things often enough that they started to sound like facts instead of opinions. That a wife would calm me down. That responsibility would sand off my rough edges. That I'd finally grow into something acceptable.
Caroline.
She was… fine. That's the word that comes to mind. Pretty enough. Polite. Knew how to smile at the right people. She fit Bareshade in a way I never really had.
At first, it was awkward. Too polite. Too quiet. Like we were both waiting for something to click—some spark everyone insisted was supposed to show up eventually.
It didn't.
But routine has a way of filling gaps when feelings don't. Shared meals. Shared bed. Shared days that blurred together until they stopped asking anything of me beyond showing up. Routine did what routine always does—rounded off the sharp edges.
It wasn't bad.
It just wasn't right.
Then something changed.
Bernard pulled away.
Not completely. Just enough that I noticed. Fewer hunts. Shorter conversations. Less time spent shoulder to shoulder in the forest where things made sense. Like he was giving me space I hadn't asked for and didn't understand.
It pissed me off.
Not because I thought he owed me anything—but because the one thing I hadn't expected to change had. I wanted things to stay the same. I wanted my friend back the way he'd always been—close, steady, no distance between us.
I didn't understand why that had changed.
I only knew I didn't like it.
Then Caroline cheated.
She didn't even try to soften it.
Said I was hard to live with. Hard to talk to. Hard to love.
Said it like she was stating weather.
And the worst part?
I believed her.
What I didn't expect was who she cheated with.
A werewolf.
The word didn't even make sense at first. I remember staring at her like she'd lost her damn mind, waiting for her to laugh and admit it was some sick joke.
She didn't.
She said it plainly. Like it explained everything.
Wild.
That's what she wanted. Something wild. Something that made her feel alive.
The humiliation hit harder than the anger.
I'd been compared to a monster.
Measured against claws and fangs and hunger—and found lacking.
Like all the work I'd put into being steady, being reliable, being there amounted to nothing next to something that howled at the moon.
I felt small.
Then furious.
Then numb.
I hated her for it. Hated the way she said it. Hated that part of me wondered if she was right.
So I divorced her.
Clean. Final. No looking back.
And somewhere in the middle of that mess—between the anger and the drinking and the nights where I couldn't sleep—Bernard was there again. Solid. Steady. Saying nothing, doing everything. Sitting with me in silence. Drinking with me when words wouldn't come. Letting me rage without trying to fix it or explain it away.
That was when the thought surfaced, sharp and sudden.
Hmph. Who needs women? They only slow the speed of my axe.
Having Bernard in my life is enough.
I meant it.
I just didn't understand why it felt so right.
Only that it did.
Then I heard the rest of it.
Not whispered rumors passed between drunks or nervous speculation meant to scare children indoors.
Facts.
That the werewolves weren't just stories people told to justify fear of the forest.
That there was an alpha in the woods—something permanent, intelligent enough to plan, cruel enough to stay.
That Caroline hadn't just cheated.
She'd gone looking for something dangerous.
Something wild that didn't just ruin lives, but ended them. Something that had already killed once before and walked away from it.
The pieces clicked together in a way that made my stomach turn.
The humiliation wasn't just personal anymore.
It was local.
It was mine.
Bareshade wasn't dealing with a scandal.
It was sitting on a loaded trap.
That was it.
Whatever patience I had left snapped clean.
I didn't think.
Thinking was for later—if there was a later.
I grabbed my gear, felt the familiar weight of steel and leather settle into place, and headed straight for the woods without telling anyone where I was going.
If some monster thought it could make a joke out of my life—
If it thought Bareshade was weak enough to be hunted—
Then I'd show it just how wrong it was.
General POV
Logan didn't have to search long.
That, more than anything else, should have warned him.
He'd expected a hunt—hours of tracking, circling, reading signs in the dirt and bark the way he always did. Instead, the forest seemed to open for him, trees bending away as if reluctant to get in the way. Branches lay snapped and trampled flat, the undergrowth crushed into dark, muddy streaks by something that hadn't bothered with stealth or subtlety.
No circling howls echoed between the trunks.
No pack shadows flickered at the edge of his vision.
No watching eyes glittered back at him from the dark.
Just one presence.
Heavy.
Oppressive.
Alone.
Logan slowed, axes settling into his hands by instinct as his pulse picked up. The silence pressed in from all sides, thick and unnatural—too open, too exposed, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
An alpha was never alone.
Betas clustered around them like orbiting moons—muscle and teeth and bodies meant to exhaust, overwhelm, and tear enemies apart long before the real threat ever had to move.
Which meant one of two things.
Either this alpha was arrogant beyond reason.
Or it had already lost everything that was supposed to protect it.
Yet here it was.
Waiting.
Or running.
The alpha werewolf pushed out from between the trees with a heavy, uneven gait, claws digging into the dirt as if it had only just stopped fleeing something it hadn't expected to escape. Its breath came in slow, steaming pulls, chest heaving as it straightened to its full height.
Nearly eight feet tall.
It stood hunched, shoulders rolled forward like a creature more accustomed to motion than stillness, like standing upright was a concession rather than a preference. White fur bristled along its massive frame—thick, coarse, and matted in places, streaked with old scars that spoke of battles survived rather than avoided. Some scars were clean. Others jagged, ugly reminders that this thing had bled before and kept going.
Its eyes burned a violent scarlet, not mindless, not empty—sharp with feral intelligence and something darker beneath it. Awareness. Calculation. Hunger tempered by experience.
Its body was pure muscle, corded and grotesquely powerful, every movement pulling and flexing beneath fur stretched tight over bone and sinew. Each step carried weight. Each shift of balance promised force enough to shatter ribs.
And it was completely naked.
Nothing obscured it. Nothing hidden. No armor, no rags, no attempt at modesty or shame. Heavy balls swayed freely as it shifted its stance, dominance and animal certainty on full display, though its sheath mercifully kept things from becoming… distracting.
Logan stared.
Only for a second.
He absolutely did not stare longer than that.
He scowled, heat creeping up his neck at the thought he didn't want to unpack, shook it off, and rolled his shoulders as his grip tightened on his axes.
Whatever this thing had been running from wasn't his concern anymore.
This was it.
The alpha snarled and lunged.
The impact was immediate and brutal, a full-body collision that sent shockwaves through the clearing. Logan met it head-on, axes flashing in sharp, practiced arcs as steel bit into fur and muscle. The first strike landed clean, the second scraped bone—but the beast barely slowed.
It was fast.
Faster than it had any right to be.
The alpha moved with a terrifying mix of mass and speed, claws snapping out in blinding swipes, jaws snapping inches from Logan's throat. Every clash rang through his arms, the force of it rattling him down to the bone, numbing his fingers even as he clenched harder.
Logan growled and dug his heels into the churned earth, boots skidding as he pushed back with everything he had. Muscle burned. Breath tore from his lungs in harsh bursts. He hacked, chopped, twisted his body to avoid being torn open—but each exchange cost him more than it cost the alpha.
And slowly, inexorably… he began to lose ground.
The alpha's strength was overwhelming, blows landing heavier with every passing second. Claws raked deeper, tearing through leather and flesh alike. Logan felt himself being driven back step by step, boots dragging furrows in the dirt as his breathing turned ragged and uncontrolled.
His shoulders screamed.
His arms trembled.
And the alpha pressed in, relentless, sensing the shift—sensing weakness.
Then—
A bolt whistled through the air.
It cut past Logan's ear close enough that he felt the wind of it before it slammed into the alpha's shoulder with a wet, meaty thud, driving the beast sideways in a furious snarl. The sudden impact broke the pressure instantly, forcing the alpha to stumble and reassess.
Another bolt followed before it could recover.
Then another.
Each shot was deliberate. Placed. Not random panic fire, but practiced suppression—forcing movement, forcing mistakes.
"LOGAN!"
Bernard burst from the treeline at a run, boots digging into the churned earth as his crossbow snapped back into place. He reloaded while moving, hands steady despite the chaos, eyes locked on the alpha like nothing else in the world existed.
His shots were clean and precise, snapping into muscle and joints, herding the alpha's attention away from Logan and buying him precious seconds to breathe.
Logan staggered back, chest heaving, vision swimming. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
Bernard didn't look at him. Didn't spare him a glance.
"You ran off alone," he said flatly, loosing another bolt the instant the alpha shifted its weight.
"That's not an answer!" Logan barked, axes lifting again as adrenaline surged back into his limbs.
Bernard fired once more, the bolt grazing the alpha's flank and forcing it to turn. "It is for you."
Despite the pain, the fear, and the blood slicking his grip, Logan huffed out a breath that might've been a laugh. "Dammit…"
They moved together without thinking.
No planning. No shouting. Just instinct honed by years of shared hunts.
Bernard kept his distance, repositioning constantly, bolts flying whenever the alpha tried to commit its weight. Every shot forced a turn. Every hit disrupted balance.
Logan stayed in close, axes biting and chopping, forcing the beast to keep rotating, never letting it settle, never letting it line up a clean charge.
Frontline and support.
Steel and precision.
Just like always.
"I appreciate it," Logan muttered between strikes, breath coming hard as he ducked under a claw and buried an axe into the alpha's side.
Bernard's voice came back tight but steady, already lining up another shot.
"You better."
The alpha began to falter—its movements growing heavier, less coordinated, snarls slipping into something raw and desperate. Blood soaked deep into its white fur, turning it dark and matted, each breath coming harder than the last.
Logan pressed in, teeth bared, axes raised—
Then it feinted.
The shift was subtle. A stagger too deliberate. A snarl too loud.
In a sudden burst of remaining strength, the alpha surged past Logan, ignoring the axes entirely as it barreled straight for Bernard.
"Bernard—!"
Too late.
Jaws snapped shut around Bernard's arm with a sickening crunch. Bone creaked under the pressure, and Bernard screamed as pain tore through him. He reacted on instinct alone, slamming the heavy stock of his crossbow into the alpha's snout with everything he had.
The impact made the beast howl.
It reeled—staggered—
But it didn't let go.
Instead, it twisted violently, ripping free and lunging back toward Logan in one final, vicious motion. Its teeth sank into Logan's shoulder, fangs punching through muscle and armor alike.
Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding.
Logan roared—not in fear, but fury.
Because in that instant, with the alpha overextended and committed—
Opportunity opened wide.
Logan planted his feet, ignored the agony tearing through his body, and swung both axes in a savage, all-or-nothing arc.
Steel met neck.
The sound was wet. Final.
The alpha's momentum died instantly as its massive body collapsed into the dirt, twitching once before going still.
Silence crashed down, heavy and absolute.
Logan and Bernard didn't cheer.
They staggered a few steps on instinct alone before their legs finally gave out, collapsing side by side against the rough bark of a tree. Both of them slid down until they were sitting in the dirt, shoulders touching, chests heaving, blood soaking into the forest floor beneath them.
"…We're cursed," Bernard said quietly.
His voice didn't shake. That almost scared Logan more.
Logan flexed his hands—hands already lengthening, bones shifting, claws pressing painfully through skin. The sensation burned, deep and invasive, like his body was being rewritten from the inside out. "Yeah," he muttered. "Figured."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just breathing. Just pain.
"I'm sorry," Logan said at last, the words dragged out of him like splinters. He didn't look at Bernard. Couldn't. "I dragged you into my mess."
Bernard let out a slow breath. "There was no way I wasn't coming."
Logan frowned. "You shouldn't have—"
"I would have," Bernard interrupted softly. "Every time. No matter what."
The change burned hotter, sharper now. Bernard hissed under his breath as fur crept along his forearm, fingers thickening, nails darkening into claws.
Bernard turned his head, eyes fixed on Logan like he was afraid time itself was running out. "Logan… I need to say something. Before I can't."
Logan finally looked at him. "Bernard—"
"I've loved you," Bernard said, the words tumbling out now that they'd started. "For years. Longer than I knew what to do with it. Since before your marriage. Since before I realized I was allowed to want something like that at all."
Logan froze.
Bernard swallowed hard and kept going, voice low but steady, like he was afraid stopping would break him. "I didn't say anything because this place—because you—because I didn't want to be the reason your life got harder. I told myself it was enough to stand beside you. To hunt with you. To watch your back. Even when it hurt."
His claws dug into the dirt as his body shifted again. "Watching you get married nearly destroyed me. I hated myself for it. And when it ended… I hated myself even more for feeling relieved."
Logan's expression twisted—shock first, then something raw and furious.
"You idiot," he snapped.
He punched Bernard's shoulder—light, clumsy, more emotion than force, more grief than anger. "You should've said it sooner."
Bernard blinked, stunned.
Logan's hands—no, paws now, furred and shaking—found Bernard's and held them tight, claws curling carefully around his like he was afraid of hurting him.
Logan opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Growled softly in frustration.
Then he squeezed Bernard's paws harder, forehead lowering until it nearly touched his. "You think I didn't feel it?" he muttered. "I just… didn't know what it was."
Bernard understood.
The warmth in his chest hurt worse than the curse.
"…Dying like this," Bernard whispered, voice breaking for the first time, "isn't so bad. Not if it's with you. I just wish… I'd had more time."
Logan's grip tightened, claws digging in just enough to say everything he couldn't. "Don't talk like that," he growled. "You're not going anywhere."
Even if he didn't know how.
Even if he didn't know why.
Footsteps.
Two sets.
Heavy. Unhurried.
Logan's ears twitched, newly sharpened, and his body tensed despite the exhaustion. Bernard's claws curled reflexively, half-lifting as his gaze snapped toward the sound.
"…If that's another one," Logan muttered, teeth bared, "I'm killing it with my bare hands."
Shapes emerged from between the trees.
Not hunched.
Not feral.
Tall silhouettes wrapped in authority and crackling power.
Krampus stepped into the clearing first, red cloak brushing past torn undergrowth, neon-blue halo casting a soft glow over blood-soaked ground. His gaze swept the scene in a heartbeat—decapitated alpha, two half-transformed men slumped against a tree, curse already biting deep.
Laxus followed at his side, lightning rolling just under his skin, eyes narrowing the instant he clocked the state Logan and Bernard were in.
"…Shit," Laxus said flatly. "We're late."
Krampus exhaled slowly. "By minutes at most."
Logan snorted weakly. "You here to scold us, or—" he grimaced as another wave of heat tore through his bones, "—because I'm kinda busy turning into a problem."
Krampus approached without hesitation, crouching in front of them, eyes sharp but calm. "You killed the alpha yourselves," he said, tone carrying unmistakable approval. "That already puts you ahead of schedule."
Bernard swallowed. "But the curse—"
"I see it," Krampus replied. His gaze softened, just a fraction. "And yes. You were bitten properly. Deep enough that without intervention, you'd lose yourselves within days."
Laxus crossed his arms, jaw tight. "But you're not dying today."
Logan blinked. "You… sure about that?"
Krampus's mouth curved into something sharp and confident. "Very."
He stood, rolling his shoulders as golden runes flickered briefly beneath his skin. "We missed the kill," he admitted, glancing once at the corpse. "Unfortunate. But that was never the hard part."
Bernard felt something tight in his chest loosen for the first time since the fight ended. "You can… save us?"
Krampus met his eyes directly. "If you're willing to endure it."
Laxus smirked, lightning crackling louder. "Trust me. He wouldn't be standing this relaxed if he didn't already know how."
Logan let out a shaky breath, leaning his head back against the tree. "…Figures. Guess we picked the right day to almost die."
Krampus straightened, voice steady and absolute. "You did more than survive today. You gave me exactly what I needed."
He looked between Logan and Bernard.
"And you're not done yet."
And suddenly—
There was hope.