Five hundred years had passed since the Silver Heroes drove the halfwolves from human lands. From that struggle was born the Jakarta Empire — a realm forged to unite humanity and preserve peace against a threat that had never fully disappeared. The Empire was divided into seven states, each ruled by a chosen family carrying the blood of the Silver Heroes. Those seven states were Asterion, Rowanthar, Reedfall, Virelia, Sagehold, Iridia, and Lilithene.
Every state had its own character, its own culture, its own military strength — but all stood together beneath the banner of the Empire, guarding humankind from the remnants of a halfwolf menace that had never been entirely stamped out. Though attacks were rare, the shadow of that old war lingered, a reminder that peace was something that had to be actively kept.
"Orin, what are you doing up there?" called a girl with loose black hair, running toward Orin at the top of an old watchtower.
Orin glanced over, then pointed at the dimming evening sun. "Look at that, Elara. Beautiful, isn't it?"
Elara's eyes lit up. "Oh, it really is..."
Then she frowned, jabbing a finger at him. "Oh — your mother was looking for you, by the way! You had her worried!"
Orin let out a long breath, then smiled faintly. "Fine. Let's go back." He started down the tower stairs, Elara following close behind.
Orin Nymphaea and Elara Kencana had been childhood friends for as long as either of them could remember. They grew up at the southernmost edge of the Empire, in Lira Village — a small settlement that fell administratively under the state of Sagehold.
Lira Village was quiet and unhurried, surrounded by thick forest and low hills. Far from the Empire's center, it lived by the rhythms of ordinary life: farmers weeding their fields, merchants arranging their stalls, children running along dirt paths.
Orin and Elara spent most of their days there together. From swimming in the river to climbing the tallest tree at the village's edge, they knew every corner of the place as well as they knew their own homes.
Then one day, the halfwolves came.
The screams came first. Orin, twelve years old, stood wide-eyed in the chaos — livestock shrieking, villagers running in all directions. His mother grabbed his hand.
"Hurry, Orin! Don't let go!" She pulled him after his father.
His father ran ahead, searching for a way out. The panic splintered the crowd into fragments. At a crossroads packed with fleeing villagers, they spotted Elara and her father being swept in a different direction.
Orin looked back. He could see Elara and her father through the trees, moving fast, trying to keep up.
"Elara!" he shouted, quickening his pace.
Elara nodded and ran with her father behind him. Orin slowed for a moment, but his father gestured him forward.
They pushed through undergrowth and roots, the screaming slowly fading behind them. Orin's lungs burned, but his eyes stayed sharp. Beside him, Elara glanced over from time to time, and their eyes would meet. Without a word, they understood: they were still alive, and every step after this would be its own test.
After about thirty minutes of running, they reached a fortress. Relief washed over everyone — ragged breaths, shaking legs. Then Orin turned and looked back.
Thousands of halfwolves stood on the path and behind the trees, blocking every way home. Orin, Elara, and his mother looked at one another, fear settling into their chests.
"Halfwolves!" Orin shouted, his voice raw.
One by one, the dark shapes revealed themselves. Their eyes burned red in the treeline, their fangs caught the last light of dusk, their movements fast and terrible. The sound of their footsteps seemed to shake the ground.
"Open the gate!!" Orin's father screamed, sweat pouring down his face, hand shaking as he pointed at the fortress gate.
"We can't!" a soldier shouted back from above the gate. "If we open it now, the halfwolves will pour straight through! It takes three minutes to lower and raise it again!"
Orin turned. The halfwolves had stopped hiding. They were on the path now, no more than fifty steps away — and they were walking. Slowly. The way something walks when it knows its prey has nowhere to go. Three minutes felt like forever.
More halfwolves poured from the trees, their growls echoing, branches snapping under their feet. Orin's father and Elara's father stepped to the front, ready to hold them off and buy time. Orin saw his father one last time — standing straight, hands empty, facing the pack alone — before darkness and chaos swallowed everything.
"Run north! There's a town that way!" Orin's father shouted, pointing deep into the forest.
Elara stared at her father, eyes glistening. "I — I don't want to leave you..."
Elara's father stepped forward, gripping her shoulders. "Listen to me. If you stay, you won't survive. We can hold them for a little while — but you have to run now. Trust me."
Orin's mother looked at both of them, her breathing fast but steady. "We don't have a choice. We go now, so they can give us time."
Elara pulled back slightly, her eyes frightened. "I can't... not without my father..."
Her father crouched down, looking her straight in the eye. "I promise we'll meet again. But if you don't run now, you won't get another chance."
Orin took Elara's hand and held it tight. "I'll be right beside you. We go together. We stay together."
Orin's mother drew a long breath, holding back tears. "All right. Now — before they get any closer."
And so, after what felt like a very long few seconds, Elara nodded — sobbing, but ready. The three of them, Orin, Elara, and his mother, ran north as fast as their legs would carry them, leaving the fortress behind while the sounds of the fight rose at their backs.
They kept running through the forest. The halfwolves were closer now — snapping branches, ragged breathing, the creatures' cries cutting through the dark.
Then, from behind the trees, a halfwolf stepped into their path. Larger than any they had seen. Its yellow eyes burned in the darkness, its teeth were clenched tight, and its fur rippled with each heavy breath.
Orin stopped. His heart hammered. "Halfwolf!"
His mother moved in front of him immediately. "Don't touch my children!"
The halfwolf growled and lunged. Its claws struck her. Her body split apart, blood hitting the ground, and through the roar of it she screamed: "Die, human—"
"Mother — no—!" Orin's voice broke.
Elara screamed, reaching out, but the halfwolf turned on her. A claw tore into her stomach and she was thrown into a tree, crumpling.
"ELARA!" Orin ran toward her, but his feet slipped on wet ground. Tears streaked his face. "I have to — I have to save you—"
Elara looked up at him, her voice barely there. "Orin... I don't want to die... don't leave me..." Her body was trembling.
Orin grabbed her hand, squeezing hard. "I won't — I promise — I won't let you—" But the halfwolf struck again, kicking him hard. He flew back several meters and hit a tree root and went down.
He lay there, staring at his mother and Elara. Their blood soaked into the earth. The forest had gone quiet — only his own ragged breathing and the halfwolf's low growl remained. Something in his chest collapsed.
"Why... why couldn't I protect you..." he whispered, his voice fracturing. "Mother... Elara... forgive me... I wasn't strong enough..."
The halfwolf left him there in the ruin of that night.
Orin bowed his head and looked at the blood-stained ground. He tried to stand, his hands shaking. His body ached, but the ache in his body was small compared to the weight on his chest — something without a proper name, except loss.
He sat in the silence of that forest for a long time. He didn't run. He didn't cry out. He just sat, knees on wet earth, head down, and let the night come for him slowly.
The next morning, Orin walked north toward the town alone. The road was cobbled and the morning air was cold. His steps were heavy, but he kept moving — one step, then another. In the town, a resident pressed a roll of bread and a cup of water into his hands, asking nothing, only nodding once at the sight of a small boy arriving alone with blood on his clothes. Orin took it, found a corner sheltered by a canvas awning, and ate in silence. That night he slept on a wooden bench in front of an old merchant's stall, and the merchant didn't drive him away. The next morning he woke, and kept walking.