Chapter 14: Echoes of the Past

In a foggy mist, Lance stands isolated, the towering edifice forming a terrifying backdrop. Pain sears through his left shoulder, a vicious memento from an encounter with a white-coated, distinctly feminine werewolf. Her ethereal beauty set her apart from the burly masculine werewolves that Lance had previously encountered. Circled around her, half-man, half-beast hybrids stood ominously, their forms a nightmarish amalgamation of man with bear, fox, and ox. Despite their injuries, their wounds healed unnaturally quickly.

Lance, too, bore the brunt of the battle. His chest plate strapped over a black hoodie with white laces and sweatpants adorned with red laces, was a mess of rips, tears, and blood. A savage claw strike had severed the left shoulder strap of his chest plate.

The tension was palpable, the only sounds piercing the eerie silence being the heavy, labored breaths of Lance and his adversaries. A sudden roar of anger erupted from a were-bear on Lance's left. "YOU FUCKING HUMANS!!!! EVERYWHERE WE GO IT'S ALWAYS YOU!"

Yet, it was the white werewolf that commanded the scene, silencing the rage-filled were-bear with a single word, "F'jarlon!!! That's enough." Turning to Lance, her tone was solemn. "Human, it is only you left. Would you be fine with us parting here?"

Lance, taken aback, managed to stammer out, "Did you just talk?" before he replied, "I'm sure we can agree that fighting more will make us both the losers."

In the face of such a revelation, Lance straightened up, wiping his blade on his sleeve. "If it were up to me, I'd happily leave, never wanting to see your ugly faces ever again." A smirk played on his lips, though his eyes held an undying rage - a byproduct of his bloodied, fallen comrades. The stark contrast between the crimson blood against the pristine snow resembled freshly bloomed poppies amidst spring's arrival.

Drawing an 8" hunting knife from his back, Lance knelt down, each weapon held in a reverse grip, an ominous aura enveloping him. "My people will have died for nothing," he announced. His enemies visibly flinched with every motion, sensing not fear, but a chilling determination. The white werewolf realized too late - they had walked into a trap. "My people don't die for nothing," Lance's words echoed ominously.

With a flash of his eyes, as pale as the moon surrounded by a blood-red aura, Lance awoke. He was panting, drenched in sweat, his breath labored. Staring into a mirror, he noticed a strange flicker in his eyes. Mumbling to himself, "Something's not right," he struggled to reconcile the remnants of the dream with his waking reality.