Wolfgrim Grau had dressed up for the holiday: a dark brown doublet woven with intricate gray silk patterns and trimmed with fur, paired with dual-toned chausses—one leg deep brown, the other gray—and high boots of soft deerhide. Every single buckle on his leather straps was pure silver, gleaming brightly in the light. After thoroughly combing his long, ashen hair, Wolfgrim admired his reflection in a small mirror. "A handsome lad, fit for any maid’s eye!" his mother laughed. "And why not?" the young man smiled, winking a green eye at his baby brother, who was bouncing in their mother's arms. "Heading to the Schierke fair, then?" "Of course. I want to buy a little Christmas token for Ilse, and give it to her at the dance tonight." Frau Grau didn't bother asking if her son had the coin. Wolfgrim was an exceptional hunter, serving as the Duke's assistant gamekeeper, so he always had money to spare and often shared his purse with her. Tossing a warm cloak over his shoulders, Wolfgrim said his goodbyes to his mother and brother and strode down the forest path toward the small town hosting the Christmas market. A gray squirrel, bounding from tree to tree above him, showered him with loose snow. The young man shook his fist at the mischievous creature, brushed himself off, and pulled up his deep hood—effectively concealing the furry wolf ears poking through his silver locks. Wolfgrim Grau was a werewolf. As was his entire family: his father Rudolf, his mother Ulvina, and little Arnolf. They had never made a secret of their true nature; the wolf ears that remained even in their human guise spoke for themselves. Granted, the men could easily mask them with a hood, and the women hid theirs beneath a coif. But years ago, the elder Master Grau had rendered a very important service to the Bishop himself. In gratitude, the Holy Church had issued them a special charter of absolution, granting Rudolf Grau and his family full permission to live peacefully within the kingdom's borders and even attend mass. They never hunted humans, never touched local livestock, and while they never forced themselves into local circles, they didn't live as recluses either. In the end, the townsfolk simply accepted them for what they were. Wolfgrim crossed a rushing mountain stream, bounding deftly over the slick, ice-glazed boulders before tackling the steep incline. Had he shifted into his wolf form, the trek to Schierke would have taken far less time; however, that would mean carrying his coin purse and sheathed hunting knife between his teeth. Unlike his garments, those items weren't enchanted and refused to vanish into an extra-dimensional pocket whenever he changed guises. Suddenly, a jay broke from the crown of a frozen spruce with a piercing, startled shriek. A magpie chattered a frantic warning, and a flock of tits whistled anxiously to one another before scattering to the opposite bank. Wolfgrim pricked up his ears. An intruder was near. A dry twig snapped under an incautious boot. The werewolf whirled toward the sound—and that split-second reflex saved his life. A searing pain scorched his left flank. A crossbow bolt grazed his ribs, leaving a superficial but incredibly nasty wound. Cut down like wheat, Wolfgrim collapsed onto the snowy path and went tumbling head over heels down the steep slope. He stopped right at the rocky edge of the stream, doubled over in agony, and lay perfectly still. About three minutes later, a figure peered out from behind a crag higher up the trail. Checking to see if the werewolf he had shot was still moving, the man began a cautious descent. Approaching the fallen shape-shifter, he walked around him, inspecting the crimson stain spreading from beneath Wolfgrim's left side. He gave the werewolf's knee a fearful nudge with his heavy boot, then drew a knife, leaning down toward a furry ear. "Splendid! Now I’ll lop off his ears and his silver mane too. I’ll bring them back as proof," he muttered, positioning himself for a clean cut. A sudden strike with the edge of a palm against his wrist forced the ear-hunter to drop his knife, and in the very next instant, something bit sharp into the hunter's backside. The supposedly dead Wolfgrim sprang to his feet and drove his knee into the man's groin with all his might. Howling in agony, the wretched hunter doubled over, clutching his crotch. But the werewolf wasted no time on pleasantries; he wrenched the man’s arms behind his back, shoved his face into the snow, and bound him tightly with his own sash. Wolfgrim hauled the fellow up by his collar, raising him to eye level, and demanded with a threatening growl: "Who sent you?" "I don't understand," the hunter wheezed, trying to wiggle out of his bonds. "You understand perfectly well. You also know as well as I do that it's as clear as day you didn't concoct this little ambush on your own," the werewolf growled, his fangs lengthening and catching the weak winter light. "I d-d-did! It was all me!" the man persisted, his teeth chattering. With a sharp jerk, Wolfgrim yanked out the crossbow bolt that he had just driven into the hunter’s backside. The man let out a pathetic howl. "Recognize it? It’s yours. And what do you know—pure silver! Tell me, does it smart?" the werewolf mocked. "It hurts me too, you know. But not because your precious silver bolt has any power over me. It just hurts like any regular wound. You see, after the Bishop granted my father absolution from the Holy Church, silver lost its bite against our kin. Is that clear?!" The captive nodded frantically, whimpering and shaking like a leaf. "I'll ask you one last time—who sent you?" "M-M-Michel! Fat Michel!" the rogue finally bleated. "I thought as much. Come along, then. You can repeat that little confession to the Captain of the Guard!" Wolfgrim shoved the man toward the path. "I won't go!" the fellow blubbered, but a swift kick to his rear provided all the acceleration he needed, and he went hobbling up the snowy slope. Fat Michel. The miller's son from the Crooked River. He had a bone to pick with Wolfgrim, and all because of a girl—the beautiful Ilse. Plenty of other lads in Schierke fancied her, and heaven knew they had their reasons to envy a handsome werewolf, but none of them resorted to violence. Michel, however, had crossed the line and hired an assassin. Wolfgrim had first crossed paths with Ilse Wiesenblume at the Harvest Festival. Her family had only just relocated to the town of Schierke to be closer to her father's kin. Tall, shapely, and breathtakingly fair, with cascading golden hair and vibrant blue eyes, she had stolen his breath the moment he saw her. She was standing amidst a crowd of merrymaking peasants, laughing with her cousins. "She will be mine," Wolfgrim murmured, completely enchanted, his burning gaze locked onto the girl. "Looks like you'll have to fight off a whole horde of suitors, Wolf," Klaus chuckled, elbowing him. "The wench is indeed a rare beauty." "Aye, that's the truth," Bjorn agreed with a nod. "Look at Fat Michel goggling at her over there. If he stares any harder, he’ll twist his neck right off." "It would do his neck some good—lord knows it's thick enough!" Wolfgrim snorted, marching straight toward the cluster of maidens, who were already casting coquettish glances at the handsome young men. Sweeping into a grand, gallant bow, he addressed the golden-haired beauty who had captured his heart. "Allow me to introduce myself, lovely fräulein. Wolfgrim Grau, at your service." "Ilse Wiesenblume," the beauty replied, offering a flawless curtsey. "May I have the honor of inviting you to a dance?" he asked, extending his hand with old-world gallantry. "You may," she murmured, placing her delicate palm into his. "Ilse, have you lost your wits? Aren't you afraid?" her cousins giggled behind their hands. "Wolfgrim is a werewolf—a real wolf!" "Is that true, sir?" she asked, her blue eyes widening in surprise. "I have never made a secret of it," Wolfgrim replied smoothly. With a roguish grin, he threw back his hood, revealing a pair of genuine, furry wolf ears poking out through his long, ashen locks. To emphasize the point, he gave them a playful little wiggle. Ilse blinked, and then, completely unexpected even to herself, burst into a bright, musical laugh. "Well, sir, since you do not hide your true nature, it stands to reason you mean no harm," she decided, allowing him to sweep her onto the cobblestones in a lively dance. Ilse danced with no one but Wolfgrim for the rest of the evening. The young werewolf was exceedingly attentive and courteous, winning her favor instantly. All through the autumn, Wolfgrim used every trick in the book to engineer encounters with his ladylove. He would lie in wait by the riverbanks just as she went to fetch water; he would stroll past her cottage on completely fabricated official business; or he would simply show up at her doorstep bearing baskets of plump forest mushrooms, fresh nuts, or bright rowanberries. At first, Ilse's parents grumbled bitterly. They pointed out the dozens of human bachelors courting her, questioning why she would choose a shape-shifter. What did it matter if the Bishop himself had cleared their name and given them leave to attend mass? The lad still possessed animal ears and ran with the beasts under a full moon. Ilse would listen silently, nod politely... and then promptly sent every other suitor packing. Fat Michel included. Then, winter struck, and Ilse's father fell grievously ill after being soaked to the bone under a freezing November deluge. Seizing the opportunity, Wolfgrim wasted no time. He brought the family a massive, fat marmot—and as any seasoned woodsman knew, marmot fat was a sovereign remedy against a chest cold. He followed it with a hoard of potent healing herbs harvested by his mother. Won over by his devotion and the recovery of the household's head, Ilse's parents finally relented, giving Wolfgrim their blessing to ask for her hand in marriage. The betrothal of the beautiful Ilse and the werewolf Wolfgrim quickly became the talk of the town. It fueled endless gossip among idle busybodies, fanned the flames of the maidens' envy, and brought deep sighs from the suitors who had been given the cold shoulder. And, of course, it stoked Fat Michel’s bitter hatred. At the city gates, Wolfgrim crossed paths with his bosom friends, Bjorn Berenwald and Klaus Foxfeld. Both the towering Bjorn and the swift, roguish Klaus were shape-shifters themselves—a bear-shifter and a fox, respectively. Unlike Wolfgrim, however, absolutely nothing about their appearance betrayed their dual nature. "What kind of scoundrel are you hauling there, Wolf?" Bjorn boomed as they exchanged greetings. "This scoundrel ambushed me near the Black Brook," Wolfgrim reported. "Shot a crossbow from behind a crag. With this, by the way"—he brandished the gleaming silver bolt—"He thought it would kill me. The brute wanted to cut off my ears!" "Ah, you devil's spawn!" Klaus hissed, shaking his fist at the captive. "What made you think you could hunt our Wolf?" "Do you honestly think this fool came up with the idea himself?" Bjorn snorted. "If he wanted the ears, it means he needed to show them to someone as proof. Which means someone put him up to it." "And I can guess exactly who!" the fox-shifter grinned sharply, his eyes flashing with mischief. "That's precisely why I’m dragging him to the Captain of the Guard," Wolfgrim said. With the three shape-shifters driving him forward, the failed assassin—now barely able to hobble—was marched directly to the gatehouse tower, where the main guardroom was located. The Captain of the Guard listened intently to Wolfgrim's account, ordered his scribe to log every word, and commanded the wretched hunter to be thrown into the dungeons. He would stand trial after Yuletide. Until then, he would have plenty of time to sit in the damp cold, contemplate his sins, and let his backside heal. With that, the Captain ushered the lads out, saying they should go and enjoy the festivities since he had his hands full even without their drama. Leaving the Gatehouse Tower, the friends stepped aside into a quiet corner. "How are you holding up, Wolf?" Klaus asked anxiously, checking his friend's side. "Is the wound bad?" "Not really," Wolfgrim waved it off. "It just grazed the ribs. The bolt was silver, of course, but silver has no power over me. I’ll just shift into my wolf guise and back—it’ll heal right up." "Go on then, don't waste time. We’ll keep watch to make sure no one disturbs you," Bjorn said. Wolfgrim slipped behind a large merchant's cart parked nearby, which formed a perfect, secluded nook behind the tower wall. Shedding his heavy cloak, he unfastened his coin purse and hunting knife, and shifted his form—first flowing seamlessly into a massive wolf, and then shifting right back into a young man. Having mended his clothes and put himself in order, he rejoined his friends. "Do you think that rogue will face the gallows for trying to murder you, Wolf?" Bjorn asked as they walked. "He certainly should," Klaus anticipated, answering for Wolfgrim. "After all, he didn't attack some nameless peasant—he tried to assassinate the official assistant gamekeeper of the Duke himself! Fat Michel is going to catch absolute hell for this. Wolf, you must complain to Herr von Wildewald at the first opportunity!" "Aye, brother! Don't forget!" Bjorn chimed in. "Herr Wildewald himself won't let this slide, let alone the Duke!" And so, they resolved to take it to the top. The lads hurried toward the market square, where the Christmas fair was already in full swing. The entire town looked as though it had dressed up for a royal feast. Garlands, festive wreaths, and lush bouquets of spruce boughs, holly, and mistletoe woven with scarlet ribbons adorned every corner. Wealthy families had hung vibrant carpets and expensive tapestries over their balcony railings. The townspeople had brought out their finest holiday attire, pinning sprigs of holly with bright red berries to their hats, jackets, and coifs. Every shop and wooden stall in the square tried to outdo its neighbors in a riot of color. One's eyes ran wild from such vibrant beauty. The three friends bought sweets for their sweethearts: multicolored lollipops on wooden sticks, candied fruits, nuts preserved in rich honey, beautifully painted gingerbread hearts, and fresh pastries. Fortunately, all three were sporting fine leather shoulder bags across their chests, where they carefully stowed the treats—no sense in carrying them in their hands and ruining the surprise! They didn't forget sweet trifles either, picking up delicate lace, silk handkerchiefs, bright hair ribbons, and carved combs. In the farthest, most shadow-drenched corner of the market, they spotted a colorful, mismatched tent owned by an old dwarf. “Here you will find what others have in abundance, but you lack,” read the strange inscription painted above the entrance. Spurred by pure curiosity, the lads ducked inside. The interior was packed with exotic dried herbs, small earthenware pots filled with aromatic salves, and unusually shaped vials of colored glass. Some containers were carved from solid pieces of rock crystal, holding what the dwarf claimed to be wondrous, magical elixirs, potions, and secret decoctions. "Look at this! Here is a tincture that repels venomous insects!" Klaus exclaimed, nudging Bjorn hard with his elbow. "Just what you need for your beehives at the apiary." "True enough. Sell me a couple of ounces, most honorable master," the bear-shifter called out to the merchant. While they were bartering over the price, Wolfgrim turned his head, his keen senses sniffing and scanning the shelves for a worthy gift. "Look at that!" Klaus practically hopped in place with pure excitement. "I’ve never seen anything like this before!" He pointed a finger at a row of small, exquisite phials standing apart from the rest of the wares. "Are the young gentlemen interested?" croaked the dwarf, having just pocketed Bjorn's coins. "Please! Feast your eyes! Right here I have Courage and Strength, Equanimity and a Sharp Eye. Over there is Success in Monetary Matters, and this one here is Maiden's Attraction." "What exactly does that one do?" Klaus asked, his fox ears practically pricking up. "It ensures that every maiden bestows her undivided attention upon your grace," the trader chuckled with a knowing wink. "And over here, I have Intelligence, Conscience, and Honor." "And what—if some fool drinks that elixir, will he instantly become a scholar?" Bjorn inquired skeptically. "A total fool, of course, will not become a wise sage overnight," the dwarf rasped. "But he will no longer carry his soup spoon past his mouth into his ear, and he will certainly stop wandering about stark naked in front of the ladies. It is in exceptionally high demand among scholars during exam sessions for mental clarity and memory retention. The effect isn't permanent, mind you, but it lasts a solid month." "A highly useful tonic," Bjorn agreed with a nod. "And where, pray tell, do you obtain such rare remedies, Master?" Wolfgrim asked. "Oh, there are plenty of... people out there who are perfectly willing to sell their Conscience, their Pride, and their Honor for a reasonable price," the dwarf said, shaking his head sorrowfully. "The latter, by the way, is a highly marketable commodity—everyone wants to buy Honor to restore what they've lost. But those wishing to buy Conscience? Very few and far between," he sighed, "even though I offer it at a heavy discount." He took a deep sip of steaming mulled wine from a large clay mug and stared expectantly at the young men. "I would like to buy Health. For my parents, my brother, and my sweetheart," Wolfgrim finally resolved. "I assume it doesn't last a lifetime either?" "Not a lifetime," the trader agreed, "but it will certainly see them safely through the winter. One gold piece per vial. Take three drops in the morning on an empty stomach, mixed with a spoonful of water." Bjorn shook his head at the steep price—incredibly expensive! But Wolfgrim did not hesitate; he simply counted out four gold coins. "And would you happen to have a remedy or a charm to restore torn clothing to its original state?" Wolfgrim asked somewhat ornately, slipping the health vials into the pouch fastened to his belt. "My... doublet and shirt were badly shredded." "And your cloak too, from what I can see. Stained with blood as well," the dwarf noted with an understanding nod. "I have just the thing, of course. Three silver thalers a vial. Simply moisten your palm with the solution and pass your hand over the tears and stains. Not a trace of them will remain." As Wolfgrim paid him, the trader suddenly remarked, "Had these stains not been from your own blood, young man, I would never have sold it to you." "You are a sharp one, sir," Wolfgrim replied, giving a short, respectful bow to the dwarf, who returned the gesture with immense dignity. Meanwhile, Klaus unexpectedly bought three vials of Conscience at once—fortunately, they were on sale for only half a thaler each. While the dwarf was busy pitching a slimming elixir to Bjorn, Klaus slickly uncorked one of his new bottles and splashed a generous dose of Conscience directly into the dwarf’s unguarded mug of mulled wine. Wolfgrim knitted his brows in warning, but the fox-shifter simply flashed a wicked grin, signaling his friend not to worry. "Now, if you gentlemen are looking for something truly extraordinary, I have a Love Potion right here," the dwarf continued, gesturing to a dust-covered vial. "A single draught, and the target will fall into the most ardent, helpless passion with the very first person their eyes light upon." He took another sip from his mug. "Care for a taste, young masters?" "Our thanks, but we have no need for such tricks," the three friends replied almost in unison. "Aye, but the miller's son from the Crooked River certainly did," the dwarf mused, shaking his head. "He practically begged me for my most potent brew." Wolfgrim’s face darkened instantly. He hurriedly bid the merchant farewell and stepped out of the tent, his friends rushing close behind. "I know exactly who Fat Michel bought that love potion for!" Wolfgrim snarled, slamming his fist into his open palm. "Bah, it’s no secret to anyone that the fool has been sniffing around Ilse, even though the two of you are betrothed," Bjorn shrugged his massive shoulders. "Say the word, brother, and I’ll thrash his ribs before the city guard even finishes their dinner." "No, it’s not worth dirtying our hands over a wretch like him," Wolfgrim objected, holding his friend back. "It would only bring the Duke’s law down on our own heads." "Don't you fret, Wolf!" Klaus said, hooking his arms through his friends' elbows with a sharp grin. "Let me not be a fox if I don’t outsmart that clever bastard. He won't get his hands on Ilse—not in this lifetime!" With that, the lads marched onto the bustling square in front of the town hall, where the tavern musicians were already tuning their instruments. On an ordinary day, Yuletide Eve would never see such an immense crowd, but on a festive fair day, the square was packed to the gills. Musicians took turns on the wooden stage, playing in an endless, lively loop. Townspeople in their finest holiday doublets and kirtles strolled through the market, bowing to neighbors, trading gossip, and exchanging warm blessings for a Holy Christmas. As twilight bled into evening, the sun dipped beneath the jagged peaks of the distant mountains, and first the Evening Star and then a sea of glittering pinpricks lit up the sky, signaling that it was finally time to partake in the festive roasts and spiced wines. Wolfgrim and his companions slipped over to a brewer’s stall to catch a breath, tossing down mugs of frothy ale paired with fresh pretzels crusted in coarse salt. As they drank, they scanned the swarming crowd for their sweethearts. The towering Bjorn was the first to spot his ladylove. Martha, a brown-eyed, dark-haired beauty, was a perfect match for the bear-shifter—sturdy, plump, and full of calm dignity. Bjorn waved enthusiastically and hurried out to meet her. Moments later, Klaus was joined by Käthchen—a tiny, feisty maiden who was as lively as a titmouse, sporting a wild halo of ginger curls and a charming scattering of freckles across her snub nose. The fox-shifter swept his arm around her waist, and the two of them immediately vanished into the swirling sea of dancers. Wolfgrim, however, paid no attention to his friends. His eyes were locked on the massive Christmas tree, where Ilse was just approaching, escorted by her cousins and her elder brother, Mathias, along with his young wife. Ah, what a vision she was! She wore a dark blue gown of fine, heavy wool, its pleated skirt trimmed along the hem with a wide band of rich black velvet that fell in structured, elegant folds. Puffs of delicate white batiste peeked elegantly through the fashionable slashes in her sleeves. Cascading from beneath her festive coif and spilling over her short waist-jacket—which was lined with plush gray squirrel fur—were her golden curls, shimmering under the torchlight. Wolfgrim smiled warmly, recognizing the fine lace trimming her coif and cuffs; it was a courtship gift he had given her himself. Her cousins were fair maidens indeed, but for him, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. The girls were just stepping beneath a grand archway of spruce boughs woven with scarlet ribbons when Fat Michel suddenly rushed toward Ilse from the crowd. Wolfgrim looked closer, swore beneath his breath, and bolted toward his fiancée. She had just frozen directly beneath a large bouquet of mistletoe hanging from the center of the arch. As local custom dictated, any lad and maiden who shared the shadow of the mistletoe during Yuletide were bound to kiss. The fat rogue's design was blindingly obvious, and Wolfgrim refused to let it happen. But right at that exact microsecond, Fat Michel tripped blindly over something hidden in the snow. Like a massive toad, he went flying, landing face-first in the drift with a spectacular thud. The surrounding crowd instantly erupted into wild laughter. Ilse startled back in fright, successfully leaping clear of the archway and the mistletoe's romantic snare. As if sensing Wolfgrim’s protective gaze, the girl turned toward him, her blue eyes lighting up as a radiant smile bloomed across her face. He hurried forward, offering a respectful bow to her family. Mathias shook the werewolf’s hand with a knowing grin, patting his shoulder. "Go on, you two, have your fun!" the brother laughed. Wolfgrim turned to Ilse, offering his most gallant bow. "Beautiful fräulein, may I have the honor of this dance?" "You may," she laughed, extending both hands to his. Wolfgrim gallantly kissed her fingertips, clasped his hands firmly around her slender waist, and hoisted her into the air, whirling her around in a joyous circle before setting her gently back onto the hard-packed snow. "Look, Wolf! Mistletoe!" Ilse giggled, pointing upward. Wolfgrim raised his head, and sure enough, the shifting crowd had steered them directly beneath a small bunch of white berries and olive-tinted leaves. Smiling down at her, he drew Ilse flush against his chest and kissed her tenderly on the lips. Fat Michel’s grand plot had utterly shattered. As for the matter of the hired assassin, Wolfgrim decided he could afford to put that reckoning off until after the holiday. Arm in arm, the werewolf and his betrothed joined the sea of youth flooding the main dancing ground. Ah, what pure magic it was to dance with the woman he loved! To whirl her through the winter air, to hold her close, to clasp her warm hands, and to catch the pure happiness reflecting in her eyes... Right beside them, Bjorn and Klaus were kicking up over the cobblestones with their own maidens, as was Mathias and his bride. Only Fat Michel stood bitter and isolated by the archway, glaring at their joy with pure, malevolent hatred. Eventually, Ilse and Wolfgrim stepped away to catch their breath, heading toward the long banquet tables piled high with holiday roasts and steaming drinks. Bjorn, Klaus, and their sweethearts trailed close behind. "Mulled wine here! Hot, rich, and spiced! As sweet as a maiden's first kiss!" the master of ceremonies shouted, filling clay mugs from a copper vat. The friends grabbed a round of the warming drinks, setting them on a wooden tray before taking a seat at a nearby bench. When Bjorn and Martha stepped away to buy a batch of hot pies for the group, the rest of the table got distracted, shouting out their preferred fillings. At that exact moment, Fat Michel slithered up to the unguarded tray, quickly splashing a vial of liquid into Ilse’s mug before slickly sliding to the opposite side of the table—positioning himself so that she would look directly at him the moment she took a drink. But Klaus the fox-shifter had been tracking his movements the entire time. With lightning-fast reflexes, he deftly swapped the mugs. Now, there lived a certain maiden in the town of Schierke named Hildur. She was red-haired, her face was as heavily speckled as a starling's egg, and she was so remarkably round that it would take two large men just to lock arms around her waist. Despite the fact that her father was a wealthy merchant, suitors were nowhere to be found, and Plump Hildur was facing the grim prospect of becoming a perpetual old maiden. It was to this exact girl that Klaus slickly delivered the mug laced with the love potion intended for Ilse. To seal the trap, the cunning fox whispered into Hildur’s ear that Michel, the miller's son, was desperately seeking an audience with her. Overjoyed, Hildur began plowing through the packed crowd like a warship, heading straight for the unsuspecting fat fellow. Michel, meanwhile, never took his eyes off Ilse. He watched with bated breath as she picked up her mug of mulled wine, took a deep, satisfying gulp, and... turned right back to that cursed werewolf, her gaze brushing past Michel as if he were made of glass. There was absolutely no reaction! She simply leaned into Wolfgrim's side, happily letting him kiss her. Michel blinked in sheer panic. Had the potion failed? Or had she simply not drunk enough? "Michel! Oh, Michel!" a booming female voice echoed over the music. He whipped around irritably to see who was bothering him, just as Hildur finally breached the crowd. She tripped blindly over a rogue patch of ice, smashing her clay mug directly against Michel's. The impact sent half her spiced wine splashing right down his festive doublet. "Oh, forgive me, sir! How dreadfully clumsy of me!" she gasped, flashing a wide, radiant smile. "But they told me you were looking everywhere for me!" "I?!" Michel sputtered, frantically looking around for whatever idiot had spread such nonsense. But Klaus, who had so flawlessly nudged Hildur's elbow to trigger the stumble, was already safely seated across the square with his friends. "There must be some mistake, fräulein. Someone has played a cruel jest on you." He looked down at the plump girl, catching the sudden flash of deep humiliation in her eyes. Realizing it would be an absolute blunder to offend the daughter of one of the town's most prominent merchants, he quickly caught himself, raising his mug. "A happy holiday to you, fräulein Hildur! Let us drink to a Merry Christmas!" "A Merry Christmas!" she beamed, her sorrow vanishing instantly. They drained their mugs to the dregs, their eyes locking as they set them down. Suddenly, a strange sensation washed over Michel. He found himself thinking that Plump Hildur was actually an exceptionally attractive maiden. And when she smiled, those deep dimples on her round, freckled cheeks were downright enchanting. Even her voluptuous figure looked remarkably noble framed by the marten-fur collar of her jacket. In fact, looking at her generous, appetizing curves, he realized that a rare treasure with such a fine, substantial figure could not be found in Schierke, let alone the entire Harz region! "Tell me, fräulein Hildur!" Michel winked, a sudden roguish charm taking over. "What do you say we fetch another round of mulled wine and pair it with a roasted pork shank, a mountain of sauerkraut, and savory dumplings?" "Oh, why ever not!" Hildur chimed joyfully, her small eyes glittering like the winter stars. "And perhaps a quart of ale to wash it down? Old Heinz brews a legendary batch. We can enjoy it with pretzels dusted in salt and caraway." "Spoken like a true lady!" Michel exclaimed, taking her by the elbow—an elbow that felt delightfully rounded and plump, like a choice ham. "Allow me to escort you to that private table over there, mistress! It’s right next to the casks; we’ll have food and ale within arm's reach." The newly minted couple departed into the shadows under the utterly bewildered stares of the surrounding townsfolk. Across the square, Klaus the fox-shifter simply offered a wicked, knowing smirk into his mug of mulled wine. "Klaus, you absolute rogue," Wolfgrim chuckled, nudging him. "This was your handiwork, wasn't it?" "Would you honestly prefer to see your Ilse sitting at that table with him right now?" the fox murmured beneath his breath. "Michel has found his perfect match. How long the potion’s magic will endure is beyond my lore, but I know one thing for certain: Hildur cannot be held back by a team of four warhorses now. She is going to drag that boy to the altar. Honestly, she didn't even need the magic. And when the old miller realizes what a massive dowry Hildur’s father is offering, he’ll be throwing the wedding himself!" "Thank you, Klaus," Wolfgrim said, his voice thick with genuine gratitude. "If not for your quick wits, disaster would have struck tonight. I am deeply in your debt, brother." "Bah, what are debts between brothers?" the fox waved it off. "You already promised that Bjorn and I would stand as your best men at the wedding. And you swore I’d be godfather to your firstborn son. We’ll call it even." The grand festival continued into the night. The lads presented their hidden tokens to their sweethearts, receiving beautiful handmade gifts in return. Wolfgrim presented Ilse with fine silver earrings set with raw turquoise that perfectly matched the brilliant color of her eyes, a silk neckerchief trimmed with delicate lace, and an abundance of sweets. In return, she gifted him a beautifully hand-embroidered tobacco pouch. When the festivities finally ground to a halt, Wolfgrim escorted his fiancée back to her doorstep, where the two lingered, unable to tear themselves apart. Eventually, Martin leaned out of an upper window with a sharp cough, loudly reminding Wolfgrim that if he wanted to make it back to his own estate before the stroke of Christmas, he had best start running before the city walls were locked. Kissing Ilse a final goodbye, the young man dashed toward the main gates just before they slammed shut. Slipping off the main road and ducking into the dark undergrowth of the forest, he shifted into his massive wolf form, clamped his leather belt—with his sheathed knife, coin purse, and Ilse's handmade gift securely fastened—between his sharp teeth, and bounded down the familiar mountain path toward home. Soon after the Yuletide season, just as their families had brokered, Ilse and Wolfgrim were wed in a beautiful ceremony. By the time autumn rolled around, their household welcomed a sturdy, healthy baby boy born with a fine pair of furry wolf ears. They christened him Wolfgang. That very same winter, just before the solemn season of Great Lent, another grand wedding echoed through the valley—the union of Fat Michel and Plump Hildur. It was a legendary feast that the elders of Schierke would speak of for generations. Years bled into decades. The children grew into adulthood. But while some had long forgotten the foolish infatuations of their youth, the dark thirst for vengeance had never truly died... Rutger von Wolffersdorf was the most celebrated werewolf hunter in the entire realm. The fame of his brutal exploits echoed from the southern mountain keeps all the way to the northern sea coasts. Yet, the glory wasn't enough to satisfy his ambition. He desired to be recognized as the supreme exterminator of these beastly abominations across the entire Christian world. He envisioned a future where desperate peasants, noble lords, holy fathers, and crowned monarchs alike would grovel at his feet, begging him to deliver them from the scourge of the shape-shifter. As for the distant heathens who didn't recognize the Holy Cross, well—they could fend for themselves. Two weeks prior, a raven had brought Herr von Wolffersdorf an urgent missive. Deep within the western border forests of the kingdom, locals had begun encountering a monstrous, predatory werewolf. Rumors of horrific attacks were spreading like wildfire. Word on the road claimed the beast had brutally devoured the honorable Frau Pilzer and her young granddaughter—a minor maiden known to the locals as fräulein Lisa Rotkäppchen, or Little Red Riding Hood. The Bishop himself had personally commissioned von Wolffersdorf to eradicate this unholy plague before it could claim the souls of more good, god-fearing Christians. It took Rutger a grueling week just to reach the isolated town of Schierke, buried deep within the dense, snow-choked forests of the Harz—the winter roads were an absolute nightmare. He spent another week quietly embedding himself in the local tavern, gathering intelligence on the beast and tracking its sightings. Unfortunately, the local peasants stubbornly refused to speak ill of the creature. The hunter was thoroughly annoyed; the last thing he wanted was to spend his Christmas holidays stranded in this backwater wilderness. But the previous evening, a wealthy local miller had slipped onto the bench beside von Wolffersdorf at the inn. The man claimed to possess a secret that would bring the werewolf to his knees. He recounted that while tracking game deep in the forest, he had discovered an ancient, dried-up oak stump with a knife driven deep into its core. The blade was pristine, without a single speck of rust. Furthermore, the snow surrounding the clearing was heavily trampled with fresh wolf tracks—and human tracks, too, left by bare feet. As any student of the dark arts understood, for a werewolf to shed his human guise and shift into a beast, he had to physically leap over such an enchanted blade. The miller offered to reveal the exact coordinates of the stump for the steep price of ten gold pieces. He claimed he couldn't escort the hunter personally because he was a busy man of commerce, and furthermore, he had five children and a formidable wife at home and had zero desire to leave them orphans should the beast turn on him. Rutger measured the fat tradesman with a look of supreme disdain before dropping a single syllable: "One." "One what, if I might ask, merciful master?" the miller blinked, caught off guard. "One gold piece," von Wolffersdorf condescended to clarify, his voice icy. "And frankly, even that is too generous for a peasant like you. I'll pay you only after I have slain the beast. If you have lied to me and I find nothing but a rusty blade left from the time of the Visigoths, you won't get a single thaler." The fat miller had no choice but to settle for what little he was offered. With significantly less enthusiasm, he detailed the exact path leading to the hidden clearing. Rutger casually tossed a small silver coin onto the wooden table. "There is your silver piece for the evening. But mark my words, peasant: if I find out you have lied to me, I will personally flay the skin from your back." "Cross my heart, noble master! I swear by the Holy Cross, I have not deceived you by a single word!" the miller squeaked, crossing himself with frantic devotion. "Good," von Wolffersdorf nodded courtly. "Now get out of my sight." The fat tradesman bowed obsequiously and scurried out of the tavern. The moment the door shut, Rutger made a sharp mental note to tip off the local Duke—to whom these vast forests legally belonged—about the miller's poaching habits. It was as clear as day that the fat fool had been hunting game without an official ducal license. The following day at noon, von Wolffersdorf rode out to the coordinates. After navigating the dense undergrowth, he successfully located the ancient, weathered stump. Sure enough, a brand-new knife was driven deep into the wood, its polished steel gleaming in the winter sun as if it had been placed there mere moments ago. Scanning the silent clearing, Rutger dismounted, walked over to the stump, and wrenched the blade free with a heavy tug. He turned it over in his leather-gloved hands, critically assessing the superior quality of the steel, the flawless balance, and the intricate finish of the hilt. "This is an exceptionally expensive blade," he muttered beneath his breath. "Which means our rogue beast comes from a wealthy house. I wonder, beast... how exactly did you cross that fat miller? Did you perchance steal his chosen bride in your youth? And I wonder if the maiden even knows her husband runs with the wolves under a full moon?" With a dry chuckle, von Wolffersdorf slid the prize into his hunting pouch. He was well aware of the ancient lore: a hunter must never leave the blade behind. Without the knife, the werewolf would be trapped in his current guise and would be forced to hunt the thief down to reclaim his property. To an elite stalker like Rutger, this was a massive tactical advantage. Suddenly, Rutger's horse snorted in terror, rearing back before bursting into a panicked gallop, tearing straight through the thick brush away from its master. Snow flew in wild arcs from beneath its hooves! The hunter turned around with fluid, calculated precision, simultaneously sliding his heavy, pre-cocked crossbow from his shoulder—primed with three solid silver bolts. Standing at the edge of the clearing was a tall, broad-shouldered man, watching von Wolffersdorf with an icy, hostile glare. He was dressed in a classic hunting suit. His facial features were sharp, rugged, yet undeniably handsome—certainly a far cry from the bloated features of the miller. Falling over his shoulders were long, striking ashen locks, out of which pricked a prominent pair of furry wolf ears. "I wonder," Rutger noted coldly instead of a greeting, "does His Grace the Duke know the true nature of his gamekeeper?" "What business is it of yours what my lord knows or does not know?" the werewolf countered, his lips curling back into a dangerous sneer that revealed a row of large, razor-sharp fangs. "Hand over the knife." "What’s the matter? Can't shift back to your pack without it?" the hunter asked loftily. "Why wouldn't I be able to? Of course I can," the werewolf shrugged carelessly. "It's just that the blade is a precious heirloom—a token left by my younger brother. We left this knife here as a silent signpost. Either of us can pass through this clearing, check the blade, and know that the other is safe, sound, and thriving." "Save your fairy tales for the peasants!" The hunter raised the heavy crossbow, locking his sights onto the man's chest. "Pray for your black soul, devil's spawn—if your kind even understands the concept of prayer!" The werewolf simply rolled his eyes, but a split second later, his furry ears suddenly pricked up, twitching toward the dense brush. "Did you hear that?" the shape-shifter muttered, his voice dropping. "Don't try to smooth-talk your way out of a bolt!" Rutger barked. But right then, from the exact patch of thick undergrowth where the hunter's horse had vanished, a terrifying crash resounded through the forest. The branches shattered, and a monstrous, rage-crazed wild boar burst into the clearing, charging at breakneck speed straight toward the two men. In a heartbeat, the celebrated hunter and the werewolf dropped their feud and sprinted for a massive oak tree standing at the opposite edge of the clearing. The werewolf ascended the trunk like a squirrel, reaching a safe, high bough in seconds. Rutger, however, struck a patch of slick ice; the sole of his leather boot slipped from a frozen knot, and he went down, barely managing to catch a lower branch, left hanging helplessly by his hands. The massive boar slammed violently into the solid oak trunk, its tusks gouging the wood at the exact spot where von Wolffersdorf’s legs had been dangling a mere second before. Leaning down from his thick bough, the werewolf grabbed the hunter roughly by his collar and hoisted him up onto the branch with a single, powerful yank. Fortunately, the ancient timber was exceptionally thick, easily bearing the combined weight of two large, armed men. They sat perched on the bough, gripping the smaller branches for stability, looking down at the massive, enraged beast tearing at the roots beneath them. "It seems our furry friend down there is determined to dig up the entire root system just to watch us drop like ripe acorns," the werewolf noted philosophically, looking down at the chaos. "He’s thoroughly mixed the snow with the topsoil!" "Looks like it," the hunter agreed grimly. He looked at his strange savior, reached into his hunting pouch, and pulled out the polished blade, extending the hilt toward the shape-shifter. "Here. Take your knife. Thank you for saving me. Now I owe you a life debt, and I cannot kill you." "That's good," the werewolf nodded, retrieving his property. "But tell me, why on earth did you mark me for the gallows in the first place? Everyone in this duchy knows what I am—the Duke included. I don't hunt humans, let alone eat them. So why am I worth a visitation from the supreme scourge of werewolves, Herr von Wolffersdorf?" "So you know my name?" the hunter blinked in genuine surprise. "Pff! Don't take me for an idiot. Of course I know the name of the most famous werewolf hunter in the realm." "A formal complaint was lodged against your pack directly to the Bishop," Rutger explained, adjusting his position on the branch. "The report claimed you brutally devoured an elderly grandmother and her innocent granddaughter. The Bishop signed the execution warrant himself, and I am bound to fulfill the commission." "Frau Pilzer and fräulein Rotkäppchen?" the werewolf didn't even ask; he simply stated the names as a matter of plain fact. After Rutger offered a nod, the shape-shifter let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Am I an absolute idiot? Why on earth would I eat my own future daughter-in-law and her grandmother?!" "What?" von Wolffersdorf stared, completely abandoning his noble composure. "What daughter-in-law?" "My blockhead of a son has been courting young Lisa Blume—or Little Red Riding Hood, as the village calls her—for over a year," the werewolf explained with a broad grin. "We’ve already shaken hands with the girl's mother; the wedding is set for next autumn. It was that fat miller who fed you the location of my knife, wasn't it? The wretch has held a bitter grudge against my house since our youth. I stole his betrothed right out from under his nose." "And she actually knew you were a shape-shifter?" Rutger marveled, completely astonished. "Of course she did!" the werewolf smirked with immense self-satisfaction. "And frankly, she finds the whole arrangement exceptionally thrilling. Our wolf ears, you see, don't vanish when we take our human form. My son has them too. We’re a unique lot; you can't mistake our kin for anyone else." "Well, well, well," the hunter trailed off, rubbing his temples. "This leaves me in a rather precarious professional dilemma. What am I supposed to report to the Bishop?" "Tell him the beast has been systematically destroyed," the werewolf shrugged carelessly. "I’ll even help you secure a proper trophy. There is an ancient, rabid rogue wolf terrorizing the deeper thickets—vicious beast, actually attacks local travelers. We’ll hunt him down together, and you’ll have your hard evidence for the high altar." "It’s a deal," von Wolffersdorf agreed, a sharp smile returning to his face. "And as for our fat friend the miller, I’ll find a way to permanently seal his lips. If he so much as makes a peep about this clearing, I’ll personally melt that promised gold piece and pour it right down his throat!" They shook hands firmly, sealing the pact amidst the ancient boughs. Then, the werewolf drew a polished brass hunting horn to his lips and blew a loud, resonant blast. Below the oak, the rampaging boar halted its digging, pricked up its ears, let out a frustrated grunt, and quickly vanished back into the dense undergrowth. The two men climbed down from the tree and headed toward the far side of the clearing, where the distant barking of hounds echoed through the frost. Moments later, a vanguard of ducal riders equipped with heavy crossbows and hunting packs breached the treeline. The Duke and his royal retinue happened to be hosting a grand winter hunt in the sector, and the keepers had rushed forward the moment they recognized the assistant gamekeeper's signature horn call. Herr Rutger von Wolffersdorf did spend his Christmas holidays in Schierke after all, celebrating in the raucous, merry company of Wolfgrim Grau, Bjorn Berenwald, and Klaus Foxfeld. Oh, what a legendary revelry that turned out to be! Furthermore, utilizing his official status, Wolfgrim personally presented the celebrated hunter to his master, His Grace the Duke. The scourge of werewolves found the hospitality so exceptional that he extended his stay at the ducal castle for ten glorious days. A week later, Herr Rutger von Wolffersdorf formally presented a magnificent, massive pelt and a terrifying, snarling wolf’s head to the Bishop. His legendary fame as the Scourge of Werewolves echoed with renewed fury throughout the kingdom, seamlessly crossing imperial borders. Which was, in essence, exactly the glorious legacy he had been striving for. Wolfgrim Grau and his beautiful family continued to live in peaceful prosperity on their sprawling forest estate in the valley of Schierke. As for the fat miller, Michel—after a brief, exceptionally private conversation with Rutger von Wolffersdorf—he permanently bit his tongue, completely abandoning any foolish notions of vengeance against the werewolf pack. Besides, his formidable wife wouldn't have allowed it anyway. The moment Hildur caught wind of her husband’s secret schemes, she soundly boxed his ears with a heavy wooden rolling pin, delivering the lumps from the very bottom of her loving heart. The End