chapter1

"Nature favors the strongest. 'Kill or be killed'— such is the law of survival, law of creation and evolution. Evolution that keeps the very world we inhabit going," Professor Armand lectured with practiced ease, owning the entire classroom with an air of superiority.

Moros liked Armand; he was a capable teacher, unlike those bored, middle-aged stuck-kups who, entrapped in their own midlife crisis, could not give rat's ass about youth's education. Armand was passionate and driven. His being handsome and mid-thirties, however, did feed to Moros's bias. His dark, wavy hair fell thoughtlessly all over the exquisite, tan face. Beautiful high cheekbones, so prominently giving away his mid-eastern heritage, could give Adonis a run for his money. And he definitely had the height to increase the sex appeal. Wit and objective beauty—a deadly combination to possess.

"Isn't that cruel, though, sir? " a female student asked, sitting not far from Moros.

His classroom consisted of fifty students, deemed to be the finest of thousands who applied to be there, Yet his peers managed to surprise him with moronic, non-relevant questions every now and then.

Professor Armand smiled, a charming thing. He slowly walked towards the students' seats, the heels of his shoes clicking against the fine marble floor.

"That would have been quite a question if we were studying philosophy, Miss Miles. But we aren't. We are studying history, a subject of facts and unemotional truth, " the professor answered.

"But , professor, isn't history written by victors? Bias is natural, distortion of facts inevitable, " Moros said,unable to help himself.

Armand's hawk-like eyes turned towards him— hazel now a pool of gold— with a glimmer in them that screamed a single word: mischief.

"your words just solidified my own words—nature favours the strongest . Truth is always a greyscale of what others perceive it as. Truth is the autobiography of victors"

Professor Armand was one difficult man to argue with.

He continued.

"werewolf history is not a story we need to learn; it lives with us, breathes with us. It was passed on to us through our grandmothers' bedtime stories. We all know how we were created, but it is of utmost importance that we keep reminding ourselves of it. "

Armand's voice slowly started to feel distant as Moros's conscience drifted to a memory— a sweet memory of his father. His father had seated him on his lap, gently rocking him as they settled on a comfortable sofa. Bright rays of the sun bathed them in a golden light.

Moros felt his lips lift in a smile at the memory. He had been only six at the time, free of any worry, free of any malice or flith that he now knew surrounded the world. He had been just him. Just him.

"Do you want to know about the story of our goddess? " his father had asked.

an eager thing to consume knowledge, he had nodded vigorously.

His father had been a great story teller, perhaps because he took such pride in being a part of them. His eyes used to light up, face a glowing sun, as he animatedly narrated the story of their glorious history. How the first werewolf pairs were born from the tears of goddess chandra. How seven pairs of wolves started seven different continents of the holy lycan species.

"Mr. Moros," Armand's stern voice whipped him away from the memory, "purportedly, you are the 'prodigy' of this class. But perhaps, your expertise lies more in the day-dreaming section, " Professor armand mocked.

Heat flooded to Moros's cheeks. If not for his suppressants, the whole class would have smelled it. He hung his head low, as he stood up and muttered an apology.

Armand looked at him intently. He always did.

"Moros, do you understand education is a privilege as much as it is a right? There are people out there who have to choose between one privilege or another; remorsefully, not going hungry to bed tends to get more weight. Such naked poverty coexists as we all sit here, in the air-conditioned room, well fed and watered, at the expense of their basic birthrights. So, at least from our side, we can try to respect the differences and not waste the good fortune we were gifted, yes?" Armand's voice echoed around the entire classroom,then a pin drop silence. No one even dared to breath.

His words stung. Moros had to physically bite his tongue. Of all people, of all the damned people present at that class, Moros knew what privilege was, he knew what living without it was, and he knew what "choosing" Was. But it wasn't a place or time to speak up. Moros merely nodded.

"words , Mr. Moros. Words. "

" I apologize for the distasteful behaviour, sir. It shall not be repeated again "

Armand finally allowed him to sit.

Odd. Professor Armand rarely lectured or monologued to discipline students. Granted, he spoke rather elaborately and theatrically while discussing course topics, but he simply never seemed to care enough to scold students in their mid-twenties. Moreover, he rarely noticed or addressed any misbehaviour from students; he simply taught.

Moros shook his head slightly. He had things of greater importance than worrying about charming professors. He had plans.

the lecture lasted a mammoth hour more before the bell rang.

***********************

"Mr. Moros, " Professor Armands voice called from behind as Moros was about to collect his bag from the locker.

Surprised, Moros turned to find the professor walking towards him in the hallway. Most of the students had already left; Werewolf history was the last evening class.

Armand came and stood by the next locker and abruptly handed him over a book. Moros looked at him with confusion in his eyes.

He was running late— he had somewhere to be.

" Mr. Moros, This is a copy of 'Ancient History Of Lycan Origin'. Today's class notes were derived from the second chapter; it should help you catch up," Professor Armand said, eyes weirdly fixated on him, voice devoid of the previous criticism.

Moros could not think of a befitting response for a momemt. His questioning eyes glanced at the book and then back at the older man.

" Sir, I—"

" I do know what happens around the class, Mr Moros, as much as it would displease the students. And I definitely notice when someone is note moving their hands to take notes, " Armands voice cut him off.

But why? Why is it your business?

Why would Armand go out of his way? Did he feel guilty about humiliating him in front of the class? It's not like he was a close apprentice of his.

It didn't matter. He was late.

" I am very grateful, sir. Again, I am extremely sorry for the unruly behavior back then. It won't happen again, " Moros quickly apologized. He really didn't have time to converse with Armand right now. Maybe on any other day, he would have been quite pleased to have an encounter with his alluring professor, but today he had rather important things; things that went beyond any personal whims he had—Would ever have.

" If I were to accept the apology, I would have to do the same as well, " Armand said, eyes softening in a rather sudden pace. " You are one of my most excellent student.Perhaps, the most potent. You are far from an ignorant youngster I painted you today. It was quite rude of me to insult you as I did, back there. I let my anger get best of me"

Moros felt weird. He felt as if the words being spoken to him held completely different meaning and context than the professor was trying to convey. As if the professor meant something different— entirely different.

Moros's phone buzzed in his backpocket, making Armand's unflinching gaze shift.

Oh, it's probably time. Shit.

Moros wanted to dismiss the professor and just walk away. He needed to walk away. But, he felt something tug at the back of his mind to stay and reply in a proper manner —Like he had to make a correct chess move.

" Sir, you are my teacher; an apology is the last thing I seek from you. Your actions were well within your rights. And I really appreciate your kind words regarding me, as well as this book."

Armand seemed to find whatever he was looking for. His eyes, his ever mesmerizing eyes, shined with something akin to victory.

His lips broke into a handsome smile . His

shoulders loosened a bit as if he was relaxing from a tiring task. He smiled—all fangs.

" You are exceptionally skilled with your words, Moros; I like that. Well, since this old man has occupied so much of your time, let me give you a lift? " Armand offered with a hopefull tone.

God, does he have to be chivalrous today? Moros thought bitterly.

" It's fine , sir. I have some errands to run ; you go ahead. "

Armand looked like he would almost pout. Like he was awaiting an enthusiastic yes.

" Cinderella has to always return before midnight, doesn't she? Have a good evening ,then. Until next time. "

With that, the older man left.

For a minute,for a single minute, Moros let himself feel the giddyness of youth. For a minute, he let himself blush at the words.

His phone buzzed again. Right. He shook away his thoughts—maybe another life for

normalcy.

Moros walked out of the university grounds with urgent strides. The reddish- purple hue of the setting sun had illuminated the entire campus in an ethereal way. The few remaining students were also in their way to the dorms.

Moros felt relieved. His eyes roamed around the uni campus and stopped at a matt black car. A nervous anticipation built up in his stomach. He slowly walked towards the car, his thoughts a jumbling mess.

The car door opened abruptly. The young driver, dressed in an office suit , bowed his head slightly.

Moros was yet to be adjusted to the bowing part.

" Sir, the people are waiting, " the driver said. And ironically, numerous implications of those words were not lost on Moros.

Moros sat inside as the car moved with a screeching noise, leaving behind the serene campus.

The car drove past a group of youngsters, all marching in unison while holding candles, all singing war cries of ancient warriors.

Something ugly reared its head inside Moros. He wanted to look away— he wanted to kill.

"Yapum-e-empire! " came a war cry from one of the marchers. Its pathetic echo threatened to squeeze the air out of Moros. His breath fastened, nausea overcoming all senses.

" Drive faster! " moros barked out, voice a bitter mess of fury and annoyance.

The rest of the ride was a blur.

The car left behind buildings and markets untill concrete was traded with greens, untill malls became paddy fields. It stopped before a worn out villa as the moon light shone bright across the land. Dense jungle surrounded the villa, an eerie silence consuming the atmosphere.

Moros got down from the car and took in his surroundings. There was no sign of complex living around the jungle. The small, stony road that lead to the villa situated between the jungle was the only way to enter. It felt like an opening of a horror movie.

Horror it was.

Moros, for a minute, just looked at the villa. And he struggled— struggled to tear down the picture in his head to replace it with a worn out, rotten, damned ruin.

Yes, that's what the structure in front of him was: a fucking ruin.

He walked towards the said ruin. With purpose. With fire. With bloodlust.

Some hushed noises could be heard as he got close to the villa— his suppressants were wearing off. Mellow smells of all kinds hit his nose. Each with its own characteristics, yet fundamentally synonymous.

His teeth twitched.

It was full moon. He should have taken taken more suppressants.

Moros took slow steps towards the huge front door of the villa. Tall and wooden, giving away the time it withstood. He slowly pushed the double planks, and it creaked open with a loud noise. The small corridor with stone studded walls opened to a large hall.

Moros's eyes travelled across the room. Six pairs of golden orbs stared back at him.

His gaze finally fell on the elderly female dressed in a black dress. Her grey hair, discolored yet elegant, glowed with an orange hue from the light. Moros took one more step forward.

" Mother, " Moros greeted.

His mother smiled as she stood.

"May—Moros," she took a deep breath, " Did–did anyone see you coming here...did anyone follow? " she asked with urgency and fear lacing her voice.

Moros hated what had become of his strong, fearless mother.

"No, mother, no one followed. "

Only then did her demeanor relaxed. Warmth replaced fear.

Moros walked towards her and hugged her fiercely, feeling the warmth travel through his body. He missed her.

He dipped his nose into her hair, embracing her shorter frame. Her scent gave away the inner distress despite her comforting arms.

" Moros," someone called his name.

Moros reluctantly pulled away from his mother, turning his head towards the people around him.

He took a whiff of the air around him— It smelled like family.

All of them bore some resemblance to his own features. Aunt Alana had luscious caramel locks like him, while her children, Mara and Meghna, shared the round, olive like face. Aunt Afeem definitely mirrored his own relatively smaller and fragile build. Katana, unlike his other cousins, didn't have a physical aspect but shared almost identical habits and lycan form.

But he resembled his mother the most. Athea Carter, embodiment of all things graceful and regal. Moros, despite being her son, could never replicate the sheer presence that was his mother.

His family— at least half of it— looked at him intently. They had waited a long time for this. He had waited a long time for this.

Moros took a deep breath.

" Let's begin."