Nia looked up at her uncle, dumbfounded. He stood in the middle of the battle. The officer who initiated the betrayal lay ripped open not too far away. His eyes open for flies to dance on his pupils. She noticed a camera crew at the closed glass doors of the news building. A terrified human crowd had fallen silent, camera phones capturing the surreal scene.

With cameras rolling, Antonio stood between the armies. He waved to the human crew to come to him. Their faces froze in fear as they came and faced him.

The world watched, spellbound, as Antonio addressed them, his voice a low growl. He gestured toward them, an imperious flick of his wrist. “Come closer,” he rumbled, his voice surprisingly mild considering the storm in his eyes.

Hesitantly, the cameraman and his crew obeyed, their legs like lead weights. Before them stood not just a werewolf, but a king, a living legend sculpted from moonlight and muscle.

“Remember this,” he rumbled, each word a blow. “We awaken to guard this world. Save yourselves from yourselves. Stop being fools. We do not want to be enemies. Yet, if you do not do as you are told, never will there be an alliance between us.”

Antonio inhaled deeply, a low huff, a signal to his pack. A whisper carried on the wind, and the six figures flanking him obeyed.

One by one, smooth, almost imperceptible, they shifted. Bones cracked, fur erupted, faces stretched into muzzles. Jason, Supatra, Lángrén, then Candace, Nia, Marisol. Each transformation was a blur of violence and grace, pent-up power barely contained. Their hulking forms pulsed, with barely restrained storms held at bay.

Antonio waited. He watched the cameraman swallow, his gaze darting between the monstrous forms and the Alpha’s calm demeanor.

He spoke to the camera, to the world, his voice a low rumble. “Remember this,” he said, “your folly will not be forgotten.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Antonio began his own shift. His was a slow, controlled dance of flesh and bone.

Muscles rolled beneath his skin, bones rearranged, teeth elongated. But unlike the others, this was a metamorphosis of control. No feral snarls, no gnashing of teeth. His transformation was a dance of power, a silent poem of dominance. Slow to smooth, so smooth it is fast.

With a final exhale, he yielded to the beast, his natural state of being. He raised his head.

Then came the howl.

A sound that shook the foundations of the earth, a cataclysmic symphony of power. The heavens trembled, celestial beings recoiling in fear. Cosmic beings felt a tremor pierce their forms, recognizing something that rivaled their own. It wasn’t a simple howl, but a primal scream that tore through the fabric of reality. Galaxies echoed, stars trembled.

Antonio, the alpha, was no longer a man. He was the true king of werewolves, a force of nature imbued by a higher authority. He drew upon the primal essence of creation, the raw energies of the universe coursing through him. With a final, earth-shattering roar, he unleashed a sonic wave that swept across the globe. Mountains trembled, oceans churned, cities fell silent.

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The world held its breath, then gasped, as the echo of Antonio’s power faded, leaving behind a changed landscape and a chilling truth. The voice of nature's king had spoken.

And in that moment, the world knew it had woken a monster, a protector, a terrifying, beautiful reminder of the balance that had been shattered. The long, rolling howl reached deep into the core of every being, holding them in a gripping trance.

All the werewolves, moments before a tide of unbridled violence and savagery, now cowed by their Alpha. The humans, wide-eyed and trembling, lowered their weapons, their hearts pounding in disbelief at the sheer force of the command they had just witnessed.

Dominance and submission reverberated through all witnessing souls. The world was unsettled and uncertain of this creature that defied comprehension. The elements seemed to bow to acknowledge his indomitable reign.

Antonio stood in his wolf form on his hind legs, a profound silence fell over the onlookers. Human reactions varied, but each one was marked by an overwhelming sense of terror and reverence:

The instinct for self-preservation kicked in, and some individuals turned and fled as fast as their legs could carry them. Some prostrated in an act of submission, a few individuals dropped to their knees, bowing their heads in a display of respect and surrender.

Those who brandished weapons moments ago now find their hands trembling and their resolve shattered. Implements of defense slipped from their grasp. Clattering of metal to the concrete could be heard in the silence. Others witnessed the sheer terror and horror of losing control of their bodily functions, their bodies betraying them.

King of the werewolves took a single step forward and looked over everyone. As if he peered into every soul, memorizing every nook and cranny. Then he turned his back and raised his arms.

Candace, Nia, Supatra, Jason, Lángrén, and Marisol howled. There was harmony in their collective sound.

Candace's note was a silver thread unfurling from ancient woods. Snaking through shadows, a lonely lament echoing through old branches. It was a vocal shiver skittered down the length of a sleeping wolf, jolting her awake.

Nia's own voice, sounded husky with sleep, joined the rising thread, weaving a harmony of bone and moonlight.

Jason's tenor was like a seismic whisper, a tremor through the earth.

Supatra's howl as she raised her muzzle unleashed the scent of pine and furry musk.

Marisol's howl resonated with the wind over the bones of the buried dead.

Lángrén's vocals thrummed like river waters pouring into the ocean. Her fur tingled as the howls coiled together.

Each werewolf, in their own voice, threaded a tapestry of sound. A quilt of which Antonio counterpointed with his baritone howl. It was not as powerful as the change, yet he blossomed into the melody, a harmony sewn from ancestral lullabies. The howl soared through the steel and concrete jungle, painting the battlefield with a deadly beauty. The sounds danced with the wind, rattling windows like castanets. It climbed in hidden spaces, awakening dormant spirits.

Every human and werewolf verbally heard how the howls dipped into lakes, stirring their surfaces, rippling power outward and upward to snow-capped mountains.

t was a song of unity, a chorus of fangs and fur, a symphony of lives bound by blood and instinct. It was a call to arms, a warning to the unwary, a reminder of the primal power that slumbered beneath the surface of the world.

But it was also a lament, a mournful wail for the fallen, the bones scattered beneath the stars. It held the weight of time. It carried the sorrow of a thousand winters and summers.

Antonio deepened his anthem of hunger and joy to include the anthem for fallen humans. It was the song of the hunt, sung before the killing of prey. He sang in his howl, a connection. An echo of hunts past, the memories of those who ran with the moon with spears and bows of the sun.

It was the song of the wolves.

And then, as suddenly as it began, the howl ended. The wolves lowered their heads, the last notes fading into the night like smoke on the wind. A hush fell over the land, the silence thrummed with howling aftershocks.

Far, and away, the silence sounded empty.

As the humans stirred from their shock, they began to murmur until they heard it.

Replies to the call. Distant. Nearby. Everywhere.

Howls.