Hello I am max a autistic teen who writes short story’s.

I want to share my story’s with others so I will be posting them here.

I was born into a kingdom bathed in moonlight, where the trees whispered ancient songs and the rivers carried magic in their currents. My parents ruled with wisdom, their hands gentle yet firm, their voices like echoes of the stars. But their kindness did not protect them. 

The night the werewolves came, I was only a boy. Too young to lift a blade, yet old enough to watch the blood stain the marble floors of our palace. I remember my father’s roar as he fought them off, his sword flashing like silver lightning. I remember my mother’s scream—a sound so raw it still haunts the deepest shadows of my mind. And then, silence. 

I am Prince Vaelarion. And I am coming for them. 

I emerged from the ruins of my kingdom with fire in my heart and vengeance in my blood. The world beyond the palace was vast, but it. The trees had always whispered to me, their roots entangled with old magic. The rivers knew my grief, and the stars—they had seen everything.

I wandered through the forests, my rage a storm threatening to consume me. I trained under the ancient ones who had seen war and ruin, learned spells that could tear the earth apart, honed my blade until it became an extension of my fury. My magic grew stronger, wild and unrelenting. The winds carried my wrath. The earth trembled beneath my feet.

Then, I found them.

The werewolves were not hiding. They reveled in their conquest, in the stolen lands soaked in the blood of my people. Their howls echoed through the night, mocking me. They thought they had ended the elven reign. They thought I was a ghost. 

But I was no ghost. I was vengeance made flesh.

I stepped into their territory under the cloak of twilight, the shadows twisting around me like loyal sentries. My blade gleamed, my hands crackled with magic. The wolves smelled me before they saw me, their eyes flashing with recognition. Their eyes flashed with recognition—fear flickering for just a moment before arrogance took hold. 

A massive wolf stepped forward, his gray fur streaked with scars, his yellow eyes full of cruel amusement. “So, the little prince thinks he’s grown strong enough to challenge us,” he growled, his voice like gravel grinding against bone. 

I did not respond. Words were useless now. My blade hummed with the anticipation of bloodshed, and my magic coiled within me like a storm ready to break. 

The first wolf lunged, faster than an arrow loosed from a bow. But I was faster. My magic flared, sending a shockwave through the earth. Vines erupted from the ground, twisting around his limbs, holding him in place. I stepped forward, my blade slicing through the air, clean and precise. The wolf fell, his snarl cut short. 

Silence hung for a heartbeat. Then, chaos.

The pack descended upon me, a flurry of fangs and claws. But I was not afraid. I was fury incarnate, magic given purpose. 

Fire erupted from my fingertips, illuminating the night with golden destruction. My sword moved in perfect harmony with my wrath, striking down every beast that dared come close. 

For every howl that rang in the air, I answered with a strike. For every sneer, I gave them agony. 

I fought until the ground was slick with their defeat, until the last werewolf stood before me—his breath ragged, his limbs trembling. 

The one who had led the slaughter of my parents. 

The alpha.

I stepped toward him, my blade dripping with vengeance. 

“You took everything from me,” I said, my voice calm, deadly. 

The wolf bared his teeth. “And now you will know what it is to lose yourself to hatred.” 

I smiled—not with joy, but with the satisfaction of justice. 

“I already have,” I whispered. And then I struck. 

The moment my blade struck, the world seemed to hold its breath. 

The alpha staggered back, a deep slash carved across his chest. His eyes, once filled with ruthless confidence, flickered with something unfamiliar—pain, perhaps, or the realization that his reign was ending. 

He snarled, lunging at me in one final desperate attempt to tear me down. But I was ready. I sidestepped his attack, my magic coiling around him like a serpent. Vines erupted from the ground, wrapping around his limbs, tightening with every heartbeat. He thrashed, growling, trying to break free—but his strength was waning. 

I stood over him, my sword raised. “This ends now,” I said, my voice unwavering. 

The alpha laughed—sharp, bitter. “You think killing me will bring them back?” 

His words cut deeper than any blade, but they did not shake me. “No,” I said. “But it will ensure no one else suffers as they did.” 

And with that, I struck. 

The werewolf’s body fell limp, the fight leaving his eyes as the last breath escaped his lips. 

Silence followed—only the wind whispering through the trees, only the faint glow of firelight casting long shadows across the battlefield. 

I stood there, staring at what I had done. I had avenged my family, my kingdom. But victory did not feel like the triumph I had expected. 

Because vengeance does not rebuild what was lost. 

The forest knew this. The stars knew this. And now, so did I. 

I turned away, leaving the ruin of the werewolf clan behind me. My path was uncertain now—no throne, no home, only the weight of what I had done. 

But I was alive. 

And perhaps, that was enough. 

They left me alive, whether by mistake or cruel design, I do not know. But I do know this: I am no longer the boy they spared. I am no longer helpless. 

Magic pulses in my veins now, burning hot with fury. My hands tremble not with fear, but with power. The forest speaks my name with reverence. The wind bends to my will. The world will know my wrath, and the werewolves will know my name—the name of the last heir to the elven throne.