Chapter 2: The Incident

  The day began like any other, the same salty tang in the air, the cries of gulls echoing over the harbor. His father, though beginning to show the frailty of age, was already by the boats, preparing for sail. To anyone else, it might have seemed an ordinary morning. But it wasn’t. It was Micah’s birthday. He had turned nineteen — old enough to finally earn the title of fisherman, to take his father’s place and continue the legacy.

  The pack did not celebrate with candles or cake. Their traditions were simpler, more meaningful.

  “Another year stronger, Mikey,” his father said.

  “My name is Micah, Dad.”

  “Come on, can’t a father cherish his son?”

  Micah sighed, though his chest swelled with pride. Any werewolf his age would envy his position. His ears twitched as someone barreled into his chest — Nico, his little brother. Only five years old, Nico always tried to sneak onto the fishing trips. He had begged their mother to let him join, but she always said no. Too young, too fragile. And she was right. Perhaps it would have been Nico who was lost instead.

  That evening, they feasted on fresh fish before setting sail.

  But that night, the sea turned against him.

  The winds rose stronger than ever before, howling like wolves across the waves. The magic that protected the werewolves crackled, weakening with every pull of the storm.

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  Micah and his father gripped the nets, fighting to hold onto their catch. The fish were heavier than expected, dragging the boat sideways, threatening to throw them both into the water.

  “Don’t let go, Micah!” his father barked.

  But Micah couldn’t answer. The ocean had already chosen.

  The boat lurched violently, and Micah slipped. He was knocked from the deck into the cold, consuming sea. Water rushed over him, dragging him under, choking him.

  His father dove after him, arms outstretched — but it was too late. For the first time in thousands of years, the barrier broke. The Triangle failed to protect its kin.

  Micah was swept away, carried thousands of miles from home. The current claimed him, pulling him into darkness. Then came the numbness. Then came unconsciousness.

  Time Skip

  Micah coughed, spitting out sand and seawater. His vision blurred, his surroundings unfamiliar. The night pressed in around him, bitter and cold.

  Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, soft and delicate, yet to him they were alien. He had never seen snow before. Beautiful, yes — but it bit into his skin, numbing his fingers and slowing his movements.

  He staggered to his feet, sluggish and unsteady. When he turned, his breath caught. Behind him rose a city unlike anything he had ever imagined — vast, magnificent, its skyscrapers piercing the heavens, their lights glowing against the snowy night.

  “Where the hell am I?” he muttered, awe tangled with annoyance. Nothing made sense. What had happened to him?

  Shivering, he rubbed his arms and trudged toward the city. His vision swam, each step heavier than the last. He searched desperately for warmth, but the best shelter he found was a narrow, shadowed alleyway.

  “Well… this is a downgrade from home,” he muttered, forcing a smirk that quickly faded.

  He was about to sit when a sound stirred in the darkness. Something moved. His heart lurched, panic flooding him. Traumatized, he bolted, stumbling into another alley — never realizing he had fled from nothing more than a stray cat.

  It took him a long while to find anyone at all, his body weakening with every step. Before he could reach safety, his strength gave out. The world tilted, and he collapsed, unconscious, swallowed by the cold.