The whispers grew like weeds.
By day, the forge rang with the sound of hammer and steel, Kael's arms straining beneath the weight of his father's expectations. But even through the clamor, he could hear them. The murmurs of villagers at the well, the sidelong glances at market stalls, the prayers muttered beneath breath when he passed.
They did not speak his name. Not openly. But Kael knew. He could feel it in the way they watched him, as though waiting for him to bare his teeth.
The beast walks among us.The boy with the glowing eyes.Dragon's spawn.
Rumors are rivers — once they begin, they carve deep.
The knight had made camp on the village outskirts. His presence was a shadow over every hearth, his armored patrols scouring the woods by torchlight each night. He asked questions of hunters, farmers, even Kael's father.
"Have you seen strange tracks?""Have you heard sounds, unnatural in the forest?""Has anyone in the village seemed… different?"
The villagers answered as best they could, but fear twisted their words. Some pointed to wolves. Others to wandering brigands. And a few — though not brave enough to speak Kael's name — hinted of a curse laid upon the village the night of his birth.
The knight listened, his face grim, his hand always near his sword.
Kael felt the man's eyes on him often. At the well. At the forge. Once, in the market, when Kael's amber gaze met the knight's steel-blue one, the knight did not look away. Instead, he studied him with the cold patience of a hunter watching prey.
The hunger stirred under that gaze, restless, furious.
That evening, Orlen finally spoke to him.
It was not forgiveness. It was not friendship reborn. It was warning.
Kael had been stoking the forge fire when Orlen appeared, hovering in the doorway. His face was pale, his hands gripping the wood frame as though he might collapse.
"You need to leave," Orlen whispered.
Kael froze, sweat dripping down his brow. "Leave?"
"They're saying things," Orlen muttered, glancing over his shoulder. "They don't say your name, but… Kael, I saw you. In the woods. With the boar. Your eyes—" He swallowed hard. "The knight suspects. If he finds proof—"
Kael's chest tightened. "You told him?"
Orlen shook his head sharply. "No. I— I couldn't. But someone will. They're afraid. They'll turn you over if it means saving themselves."
Silence hung heavy between them. Kael wanted to thank him, to explain, to beg for understanding. But the words curdled on his tongue. What could he say? That he killed because he must? That blood was the only thing keeping the monster at bay?
Orlen's gaze dropped. "I don't know what you are, Kael. But you're not just a boy anymore. And if you stay…" His voice broke. "They'll kill you."
Then he was gone, leaving Kael alone with the forge's hiss and the hunger coiling in his gut.
That night, the whispers invaded Kael's dreams.
He stood in the square, the villagers surrounding him with torches. Their faces were blank, eyeless, mouths gaping in unison as they chanted: Dragon. Dragon. Dragon.
His father stepped forward, hammer in hand, eyes filled not with love but with judgment. His mother wept, clutching her rosary. And behind them all, the knight's blade gleamed in the firelight.
Kael tried to speak, but no voice came. His throat burned. His skin split, scales tearing through flesh, wings unfurling in a storm of fire and blood. The villagers screamed, torches falling, houses burning — and Kael woke gasping, his mouth wet with the taste of iron.
He had bitten his own tongue in his sleep.
The next day, a body was found.
A farmer's son, no more than fifteen, dragged half-eaten from the edge of the woods. His chest had been torn open, his blood drained. The village erupted in panic. Mothers wailed. Fathers sharpened their blades. The knight declared that the beast had struck again, closer than ever.
Kael's heart turned to stone. He had no memory of killing the boy, no recollection of that night at all. But his lips were still stained when he woke, his nails rimmed in dried red.
He had lost himself.
The hunger was no longer whispering. It was commanding.
The knight wasted no time. He called for a hunt, urging the men to arms, promising coin and honor for the slaying of the beast. Torches lit the dusk as steel rang, boots thudded, hounds bayed.
Kael stood among them, his hammer at his belt, his face a mask of calm. Inside, he trembled. They were hunting him — and he was marching with them into the woods.
Each step was agony. Every heartbeat echoed in his ears. The hunger surged at the scent of so many warm bodies around him. His throat burned. His nails dug into his palms. He forced himself to breathe, to stay still, to play the part of the boy he no longer was.
The knight's eyes never left him.
Hours passed, the hunt finding nothing but silence. No tracks. No howls. No monster.
But Kael knew better.
The monster was right there among them, cloaked in boy's flesh, fangs hidden behind trembling lips. And sooner or later, no mask would be enough to keep it hidden.
The whispers had already chosen their culprit.
All that remained was for the truth to be torn into the open — in fire, in blood, in dragon's rage.