The night after Selona's departure weighed on Mael like chains too heavy to bear. Her words still tore through him, sharp as silver: "When the moon bleeds again, you will no longer recognize what is yours—or yourself." He had walked away from the woods trembling, his body betraying him beneath a moon not even blood-red. It was proof of her warning—his curse was evolving, mocking his control. His chest still ached, his veins pulsed with an alien rhythm, and the whisper of claws beneath his skin left him hollow. He needed to silence it, or perhaps drown it. Noise, drink, anything that wasn't the sound of his own heartbeat turning beastly. And so his feet, almost without his consent, carried him down the winding path toward Omboko Village.
Omboko was alive with contradictions. Lanterns burned low, casting long shadows over mud walls and iron rooftops. The smell of roasted maize clung to the air while laughter spilled from taverns, colliding with the ringing church bells far across the square. By day, villagers called on God; by night, they sang to the bottom of their cups. Tonight was no different—children darted barefoot between vendors packing away their stalls, while drummers beat out a rhythm that pulled men and women into the smoky glow of the village club. Omboko's face was joy, but its heart carried rumor. The name beast passed between tongues often, though always with a laugh, never with belief.
The wooden door of the club groaned as Mael pushed it open. A wave of heat and noise hit him—smoke, spilled brew, the stench of sweat and wine-soaked floors. The air was thick enough to choke. He slid into a shadowed corner, broad shoulders hunched, hood drawn low. To them, he was a stranger with tired eyes and thirst. To himself, he was a storm barely contained. A server shoved a gourd of frothing palm wine into his hands. Mael drank deep, grimacing at the bitter fire in his throat. For a fleeting moment, it dulled the clawing inside.
At the center table, a group of half-drunken men roared with laughter. One leaned forward, slamming his cup for attention. "They say—" he hiccuped—"they say the beast comes when the moon turns red." His words staggered into a chuckle. "But if he's real, he must be shy! I've been drinking under the moon my whole life, and not once has he shown his tail!" The men howled, pounding the table until cups tipped. Another raised his gourd in mock salute. "To the beast then! May he keep hiding while we drink his share!" Their toast sent another wave of laughter.
Mael's jaw tightened. The irony was cruel. If only they knew the monster they mocked was sitting closer than their wine cups. He took another drink, slower this time, as though swallowing his anger with the brew.
Not far from them, a priest in worn robes and an aging scholar sat locked in debate. The priest's voice rose above the din, passionate, almost fevered: "The blood moon is no accident. It is judgment—our sins have called it, and the beast walks because faith has withered." His finger jabbed the air for emphasis, eyes gleaming with conviction. The scholar scoffed, swirling his drink lazily. "Superstition. You shout curses because you fear what you don't understand. The blood moon is shadow, nothing more. What you call a monster is madness—men who lose reason when fear takes hold." His tone dripped with disdain. Their audience muttered, torn between mockery and unease.
Mael listened, though his lips pressed into a thin line. Both were wrong. Both were close enough to be dangerous.
Then—sharp, sudden, undeniable. A scent pierced the smoke and laughter, winding into his senses like barbed wire. Not wine, not roasted meat, not the stink of sweat. Richer. Metallic. Familiar. Blood. Not human blood. Werewolf blood.
Mael froze mid-drink, the gourd trembling in his hand. His senses sharpened, the club melting away into clarity. He scanned the haze and found them—two men near the back, faces too ordinary, laughter a beat late, smiles stretched too long. Their disguise was clever, but not enough. His blood recognized theirs. Predators. And their hunger was straining at the mask. They weren't here for palm wine. They were here to feed.
Mael's chest tightened with fury. He didn't need to guess their plan. He saw it in the flick of their eyes, the way their hands hovered near their cups as if waiting for the signal to drop the act. They would wait until the club swelled drunk and careless, then they would turn it into a slaughterhouse. Innocents, unarmed, blind in their laughter.
But as his gaze burned into them, something shifted. One froze mid-sip. The other's grin faltered a second too long. Recognition sparked. They knew. Their nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. The false drunkenness thinned. In their eyes, a gleam too sharp for men flickered to life.
Predator met predator.
Mael lifted his gourd, drinking slowly, never breaking eye contact. The taste of the brew was bitter ash, but he swallowed it down. Around him, villagers laughed harder, the noise a shield for their ignorance. The werewolves smiled wider, teeth glinting faintly. Their bodies stayed still, but Mael saw it—the too-slow blink, the tautness in their shoulders, the predatory stillness of beasts waiting for the first strike.
Inside, his curse surged. His heartbeat thundered, claws pressed against flesh desperate to tear through. Sweat prickled his brow. He almost feared the beast would burst free in that crowded room. But Mael clamped his jaw, breathing steady, summoning every shred of control. If he lost it here, the villagers would pay the price. He had to hold. He had to wait.
Then the priest's voice cut through again, drunkenly triumphant: "Mark my words, the beast walks among us even now!" He staggered, spilling wine down his robe, and the crowd erupted with laughter. "Yes, Father, preach to us! Maybe the beast will join our song!" someone jeered. Another slammed his fist on the table, toasting again, "To the beast!" Cups clashed, wine spilled, voices rose in mock celebration.
Mael's lip curled. If they only knew how close they were to truth. If they only knew the beast they mocked sat in their midst, holding back jaws that longed to rip flesh.
The minutes stretched thin. The werewolves leaned closer to each other, murmuring beneath the noise. Mael caught fragments, low and coarse: "Tonight… feast… blood." His hand slipped from the gourd to the edge of the table, fingers curling tight.
He stood slowly. His shadow stretched long across the floor, a silent challenge. Conversations stumbled near him, but the laughter quickly swallowed the pause. Across the room, the two beasts straightened, their masks cracking for a heartbeat. He saw the hunger in their eyes, unhidden now, raw and sharp.
And then the silence fell—not over the room, but between them. A silence thick with recognition, heavy with the promise of violence. The villagers remained blind, still drinking, still mocking curses. Only three souls knew the truth of that moment: Mael, and the predators who had come to kill.
And in that heartbeat before chaos, Mael understood. He was not just cursed. He was the only shield between Omboko and death. The irony stung cruelly. The villagers laughed at monsters, prayed against them, denied them—and yet their lives hung on the very beast they feared.
And tonight, Omboko would remember that the monster it feared
was also the monster that bled for them.