Chapter 1 : Blood Moon Encounter

London in November was perpetually shrouded in fog. The damp rising from the Thames mingled with coal smoke from factory chimneys, creating a peculiar yellowish-grey haze that clung to the city like a funeral shroud. In the East End, streets grew dim by late afternoon, gas lamps casting sickly halos through the murk, barely illuminating the muddy cobblestones.

Jacob Miller carried a heavy food basket, moving swiftly through the narrow alleys of Whitechapel. His worn boots splashed through puddles, sending up tiny sprays of filthy water. Though the air was biting cold, he wore only a thin coarse coat over a faded shirt. Cold had never been a problem for him—the werewolf blood running through his veins kept his body temperature several degrees higher than any human''s.

"Last delivery," he muttered to himself, glancing at the stew and black bread in the basket. "Hope this new tenant isn''t too particular."

The meal was for the new lodger in the attic of 17 Rose Lane. The landlady had said he was a strange young man, from the Continent, who paid a month''s rent upfront but rarely left his room. Jacob worked as a kitchen helper and delivery boy at the Old George Tavern; he''d seen plenty of odd customers in his time.

Rose Lane was among the East End''s most dilapidated streets, flanked by crowded tenements with walls blotched from damp, windows mostly sealed with rags or boards. The porch of number 17 was rotting, and Jacob pushed the door open gently, climbing the creaking stairs.

The attic was on the fourth floor, with no gas lighting, only a single oil lamp at the stairwell landing providing feeble illumination. Jacob could see perfectly in the dark—one of the werewolf gifts, night vision that allowed him to move effortlessly in the deepest shadows.

He knocked on the attic door. "Sir, your dinner."

No response.

Jacob frowned, knocking again. "Sir? I''m from the tavern."

Still silence.

An ominous premonition stirred within him. Jacob''s sense of smell was dozens of times sharper than a human''s, and he caught it now—the scent of blood, fresh human blood, and... metal and gunpowder.

He set down the basket and pushed the door gently. It wasn''t locked, swinging inward with a groan.

The attic was in disarray. The single table had been overturned, a chair leg broken, the simple bed''s blankets torn aside. Most striking were the bloodstains on the floor—dark red, not yet fully congealed, trailing from the doorway to the window.

Jacob scanned the room quickly. The window stood open, cold wind carrying fog into the space. He moved to the window and looked down. The narrow back alley was empty, but blood marked a path down the fire escape.

"Damn," he whispered.

This wasn''t ordinary robbery or brawling. Jacob could distinguish at least three scents: one young male, likely the tenant; two others... carrying the smell of iron and sulfur, and that particular corrupt scent—the Shadow Brotherhood.

Jacob knew the Shadow Brotherhood all too well. The secret organization held considerable power in the East End, engaged in every manner of illicit activity. For months they''d been inquiring about the "priest''s relic," and Jacob had been careful to avoid them. Now it seemed they''d found a new target.

He could have turned and left. What was a stranger''s life or death to him? But his foster father''s teachings echoed in his ears: "Jacob, God gave you these abilities not for your own preservation alone."

Sighing, Jacob removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed the werewolf instinct to partially awaken. His senses instantly heightened: he could hear carriage wheels rattling three blocks away, smell the fishy odor of the Thames, feel the prey''s trail like bright threads extending through the darkness.

He climbed out the window, descending the fire escape with light grace, landing almost soundlessly. The blood trail vanished around a corner in the back alley, but the scent path was clear. Jacob moved through the alleys like a shadow, avoiding the occasional drunkard or prostitute.

After tracking for about ten minutes, he reached an abandoned warehouse district. These had once been dockside warehouses, now mostly empty, breeding grounds for criminal activity. The bloody scent grew strong here, mingled with pained groans.

Jacob hid behind a broken crate, peering ahead. In a clearing before a warehouse, two men in black coats surrounded a young man on the ground. The young man wore an elegant dark blue suit, now soiled with mud and blood. One eye was swollen shut, his lip bleeding, but his gaze remained sharp.

"Mr. von Rosenberg, our employer is patient, but patience has limits," one thug said in English tinged with an Eastern European accent. "Tell us the safe combination, and we''ll make your death quick."

The young man—Lucas von Rosenberg—sneered, spitting blood. "Tell your employer that von Rosenbergs don''t yield to threats."

"Then don''t blame us," the other thug produced a dagger, twirling it in his hand. "Shall we start with fingers? I hear you''re a doctor. Fingers are important to you, yes?"

Jacob knew he couldn''t wait any longer. He inhaled deeply, letting the werewolf power surge within him. Muscles expanded slightly, nails sharpened, pupils dilated in the dark. But he controlled the transformation—not a full change, that would expose him. Just enough strength and speed.

He burst forward like a cannonball.

The first thug didn''t even react before Jacob''s fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying into the wall, unconscious. The second turned in shock, dagger thrusting toward Jacob, but Jacob easily caught his wrist, twisted, the dagger clattering to the ground, followed by an elbow strike that rendered him senseless too.

The entire process took less than five seconds.

Jacob gasped for breath, forcing himself to calm. The werewolf''s fury needed control; after each use of power, he had to wrestle with the beast''s instincts within. He closed his eyes, silently reciting the prayers his foster father had taught him, until his heartbeat normalized.

Then he turned to the young man on the ground.

Lucas von Rosenberg was watching him with his uninjured eye, expression mixed with shock, wariness, and... curiosity. Even in such disheveled circumstances, he maintained a peculiar dignity. Jacob noted his features—sharp features, pale blond hair, grey-blue eyes, clearly Northern European or Germanic ancestry.

"Can you stand?" Jacob extended a hand.

Lucas hesitated, then took it. Jacob carefully pulled him up, avoiding obvious wounds. The young man was heavier than he looked, muscles firm, clearly not some pampered aristocrat.

"Thank you," Lucas''s voice was hoarse but clear. "But you''ve made trouble for yourself. The Shadow Brotherhood won''t let this go."

"I know," Jacob said shortly. "Can you walk? This place isn''t safe."

Lucas tried to step forward, but his left leg buckled, nearly collapsing. Jacob caught him in time, finding a deep wound on his calf, still seeping blood.

"I''ll carry you," Jacob said without hesitation, crouching.

"No need, I can—"

"If you want to leave alive, stop arguing," Jacob''s tone was firm.

Lucas fell silent for a moment, then finally climbed onto Jacob''s back. Jacob lifted him easily, surprised by his own strength at this moment—the werewolf bloodline always grew stronger in crises.

He quickly left the warehouse district, choosing secluded paths. Night and thick fog provided perfect cover. He could feel the tension in the muscles of the man on his back, hear his suppressed groans of pain, but Lucas didn''t complain once.

Twenty minutes later, they returned to 17 Rose Lane. Jacob didn''t use the front door but climbed through the back alley window into the attic. He laid Lucas on the bed and quickly examined the wounds.

"I''m a doctor, I can handle this myself," Lucas said.

Jacob glanced at him. "There''s no medical equipment here. The leg wound needs stitching, the eye needs cold compresses, ribs might be fractured. I''m a tavern kitchen helper, but I''m better at treating wounds than cooking."

From his coat pocket he produced a small cloth bundle—containing needle and thread, gauze, and a small bottle of gin (for disinfection). His foster father had taught him to always carry first aid supplies.

Lucas looked at him in surprise. "You... carry these?"

"East End life requires it," Jacob answered shortly, beginning to clean the wound.

The wound treatment proceeded quietly and efficiently. Jacob''s movements were surprisingly skilled, the needle and thread as agile in his hands as kitchen knives. Lucas clenched his teeth against the pain, only emitting slight inhalations at the most painful moments.

"What''s your name?" Lucas suddenly asked.

"Jacob Miller."

"Jacob... thank you for saving me. I''m Lucas von Rosenberg."

"I know, they said," Jacob finished the last stitch, cutting the thread. "Why is the Shadow Brotherhood after you?"

Lucas was silent for a while. "Family feud. My father... offended the wrong people."

"What''s in the safe?"

Grey-blue eyes piercingly looked at him. "That''s none of your business."

Jacob shrugged. "Suit yourself. But they''ll come back for you. This place isn''t safe."

"I know," Lucas looked at his bandaged leg. "I need time... to think about next steps."

Jacob tidied up the medical supplies, standing up. "Dinner''s outside the door, probably cold by now. I''ll bring breakfast tomorrow."

He reached the door, paused, and looked back. "Lock the door. Don''t open the window tonight, no matter what sounds you hear."

"Why?" Lucas asked.

Jacob didn''t answer, only gave him a deep look before closing the door and leaving.

Descending the stairs, Jacob felt the moon''s call. He looked up through a broken window at the sky; the fog had thinned slightly, a full moon faintly visible. Tonight was the full moon; he needed to return to his own dwelling quickly, lock doors and windows, prepare the chains.

But first, he needed to warn his foster father. The Shadow Brotherhood''s activities were increasing; they seemed to be searching for something... or someone.

Jacob didn''t know that tonight''s encounter would change his life forever. He didn''t know this injured aristocratic young man would uncover his most deeply hidden secret, nor that the two would embark together on an escape journey spanning continents.

He only knew that when Lucas von Rosenberg took his hand, some ancient bloodline resonated, like the moon''s tides—irresistible, inescapable.

The foggy capital night was still long, and the silver moon had just risen.

---

Jacob returns to his own dwelling to face the monthly transformation. Lucas, hearing strange sounds from the attic, grows curious and begins to investigate. The Shadow Brotherhood closes in on Rose Lane. As the full moon reaches its zenith, Jacob struggles to control the werewolf instincts threatening to overwhelm him, while Lucas edges closer to discovering the truth about his rescuer.

=== Chapter 2 ===

THE SILVER MOON VOW