O Chamado da Alma do Lobo

The night wind swept across the desolate wilderness like a knife, biting cold and tinged with the stench of wild beasts. The black forest lay silently upon the earth, like a slumbering giant; between the interlaced shadows of trees, an occasional low wolf’s howl pierced the night, sending a chill through the heart.

Kale stood at the edge of the village, gripping his longbow tightly, his gaze fixed on the depths of the forest. In the moonlight, his figure cast a long shadow across the soil and withered grass, as if melding into that darkness.

This was the second villager to vanish this month.

Kale’s brow furrowed, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. The missing villagers were usually last seen walking alone at night; by dawn, only tattered clothing and splattered blood would be found at the forest’s edge, never a body. The elders of the town were convinced that it was all connected to the age-old legend—the curse of the werewolf.

Kale didn’t put much faith in such ancient tales, but he knew that beasts did not attack humans without cause. Something must have awakened the malice within them.

“Kale, aren’t you going back?” came a deep voice behind him. It was Reis, the village hunter, carrying a freshly slain deer across his shoulders. Blood dripped from the deer’s body, staining his boots red.

Kale turned and offered a faint smile. “You’re not leaving either.”

Reis shrugged. “Without prey, we’ll go hungry.”

“It’s just… the forest has been too restless lately.” Kale looked into the darkness, his eyes somber. “Don’t you feel it?”