The sky bled red that night.
A strange stillness cloaked Mael's village, the kind that comes before a storm—or a massacre. As the moon climbed into view, a deep crimson glow poured across the land like spilled blood. The elders whispered of the old stories: cursed nights, beasts rising, and souls vanishing before dawn. Mael never believed them. Not until the screams started.
He sprinted through the forest, branches tearing at his arms, heart pounding like war drums. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. The trees seemed to twist around him, watching. Judging. He found the first body at the village border: torn apart, eyes wide in frozen terror. Then another. Then ten more. He dropped to his knees, nausea tightening his gut. Blood soaked the soil.
In the distance, a howl shattered the silence.
Not a wolf's. Not human either. Something in between.
Mael turned to run, but pain sliced through his spine like a blade. His vision blurred. Bones cracked, muscles writhed beneath his skin. He screamed—a sound that turned into a growl. The agony was unbearable, and yet, somewhere in the madness... a hunger awakened.
A monstrous reflection stared back at him from the riverbank. Golden eyes. Jagged fangs. Claws dripping with blood that wasn't his.
Mael didn't remember killing anyone. But his hands told a different story.
As the blood moon hung like a curse above, Mael staggered into the darkness, hunted by a horror he didn't understand—himself. What had he become?
A whisper echoed through the trees, not of wind, but something else.
Something ancient. Something calling his name.
And in the distance, under the silver glow of the stars, a cloaked figure watched.