Mael stood in front of the silver-lined library door, the only thing separating him from the creature his father had become. The silence from within felt heavier than the reinforced walls themselves, as if time had folded in on that room and sealed it with regret. It was once a place of knowledge and warmth, where his father had read to him under candlelight. Now, it was a cold prison. A grave that still breathed. He hadn't opened the door in days. Not because he was afraid of what his father might do—but because he feared what he might see. Was there still a man behind that cursed shell, or had the beast devoured everything?
The memory of that night returned, uninvited and raw. His mother's scream had pierced through the house like a knife. By the time he reached their room, the floor was soaked in blood and her body lay still—eyes wide open, lips parted as if mid-prayer. His father had been crouched in the corner, his transformation halted midway. The sight had broken something inside Mael. He had expected fury to rise, to take vengeance immediately. But what he'd felt instead was confusion… then horror… and then a darkness inside him whispering: You're next. That voice, ancient and primal, hadn't stopped since.
Instead of ending his father's life, Mael dragged him—snarling, sobbing, part-beast—into the library and sealed him inside. Not for redemption. For control. For containment. Maybe for both of them. But now, days later, Mael couldn't tell if that choice had made him merciful or a coward. He leaned his forehead against the cold wood. "I didn't kill you… not because I couldn't," he whispered, "but because I didn't want to see myself in your death." He stepped away, heart heavy, and walked into the open air where the moon hung veiled behind bruised clouds.
The breeze was crisp, but something rode on it—an unnatural scent. Mael's nose twitched. Smoke. Ash. And something metallic and warm… blood. His body responded before thought could catch up. His eyes flashed gold, muscles tensing as the beast stirred beneath his skin. He sprinted toward the source, moving like a shadow between trees. As he approached the woods' edge, the scent thickened. It was fresh. Violent. Wrong.
There, beneath the underbrush, lay a corpse. Mangled. Clawed open with a surgeon's precision. This wasn't the work of a wild creature—it was done with intent. Markings had been carved into the flesh, glowing faintly with a sickly red aura. Ritualistic. Cursed. Mael crouched beside the body, eyes narrowing as the symbols pulsed faintly. His gut turned. These weren't random attacks. This was a message. And he knew who it was from.
"Kael," he growled under his breath. Their kingdom had finally begun to move. But they hadn't come with an army or emissaries—they sent something far worse. Experiments. Things once human, now twisted by their forbidden blood magic. Selona's warning echoed from the depths of his mind: "They don't conquer by force. They corrupt. Infect. They make you doubt what's inside you until you become what they want." His jaw tightened. Kael was not just testing him. They were trying to mold him.
The wind shifted again—unnaturally silent now. He wasn't alone. Mael rose slowly, his eyes scanning the woods. A flicker of movement to his left. Not animal. Not spirit. Something trained. His pulse quickened as he turned, claws half-formed, ready. Then the figure stepped forward from the trees—fast, feral, and marked. It lunged without a word, no hesitation, no soul behind its eyes. It moved like a predator, but its energy... twisted like a puppet on strings.
Their bodies collided with bone-cracking force. Mael snarled as claws raked his arm, pain flashing white-hot through his nerves. He retaliated with a brutal slash that sent the creature skidding into a tree. It rose again, almost mechanically, hissing. There was no fear, no hesitation—just blind, programmed rage. Mael's thoughts blurred. He wasn't just fighting a monster; he was fighting a symbol. A message from Kael. This is what you are becoming. And that fear, that whisper, nearly undid him.
But Mael roared louder. He wouldn't let them define him. Not through blood, not through curse. His rage surged—not mindless, but burning with clarity. He fought back with everything: claws, fists, instinct. When the creature lunged again, he caught it mid-air, slamming it down with bone-snapping finality. Its body twitched, then went still, eyes dimming like a fading candle. Mael stood over it, panting, chest heaving, as blood dripped from his claws into the dirt.
He stared at the corpse—what used to be a man—now reduced to Kael's toy. Twisted and discarded. His hands shook. Not from exhaustion, but from what this meant. This was only the beginning. Kael wasn't looking to kill him. They were provoking him. Testing how far gone he already was. Mael looked to the sky where the moon had finally broken through the clouds, blood-red and watching. He clenched his fists. "You want a monster?" he said, voice low and dangerous. "Then come see what your blood has made."