The world returned to him in fragments - sound before sight.
A bell was tolling somewhere in the distance, slow and uneven, as if a dying man swung it with his last strength. Beneath it came the crackle of distant fires, the low sob of wind through broken glass, and the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air.
William opened his eyes to the dim light filtering through a shattered rose window. He was lying on cold marble, surrounded by fallen pews and splintered beams. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was - then it rushed back: the banquet, the scream, the spell, Elyon's face as the world fell apart.
He pushed himself upright, wincing as pain seared through his ribs. His white ceremonial jacket was shredded, dark with dried blood.
"Elyon..." he rasped. His voice cracked. No answer came - only the soft, mournful echo of the bell.
He realized where he was: the royal chapel, or what was left of it. The altar lay toppled, the stained glass that once depicted the founding of Nitchgard now a mosaic of colored shards beneath his knees.
For a long moment he simply sat there, breathing shallowly, the enormity of silence pressing down on him.
Then movement caught his eye.
The banners above the dais - the red and gold sigil of King Roland - had been torn down, replaced by crude swaths of black cloth painted with silver markings. He knew the language: runes of binding.
"Petrid," he muttered. The name left a bitter taste.
He staggered to his feet, leaning on the broken altar for support. The stone was cold and slick beneath his palm.
Outside the chapel doors came faint sounds - shuffling feet, the clink of armor. He froze.
Two shadows passed across the fractured light - knights, but wrong somehow. Their movements were stiff, puppet-like, and when they turned, he saw the hollow gleam in their eyes.
William backed deeper into the chapel, every instinct screaming to move, to hide.
The wolf stirred.
It began as a pulse deep in his chest, then spread outward - a vibration in his bones, a tightening beneath his skin. His breath hitched. His vision sharpened; he could see the dust motes turning in the air, hear the faint beat of the guards' hearts through the door.
Not now. Not here.
He clenched his fists and forced a long, controlled breath. The tremor subsided - barely.
His father's voice echoed in his mind, the same words spoken a hundred times in secret chambers of the Ludian palace: Control it, William. The beast is not a curse if you own it. But if you let it own you...
He drew another breath and looked up at the ruined window. Through the cracks, the night sky glimmered with stars, and among them hung the faint crescent of the moon. Not full. Not yet.
He exhaled slowly. "You still have time."
The doors groaned. The sound of metal scraped against marble as one of the enchanted knights forced its way inside. Its armor was scorched and blackened, a torn banner dragging from its shoulder like a cloak.
William ducked behind the altar, every nerve tense. The knight stepped forward, head turning with mechanical precision.
He glanced around for a weapon - found a splintered candelabrum half buried in ash.
The knight moved again, its armor grinding.
William rose silently, muscles coiled. When it turned its back, he struck. The metal shaft came down across the back of its helm with a sharp crack. The knight staggered but did not fall.
Its sword came up, flashing with dull light.
William twisted aside, snatched the blade arm, and drove his knee into the thing's chest. Metal caved with a shriek. He wrenched the sword free and plunged it upward beneath the visor. The body jerked once - then went limp.
He stepped back, breathing hard, the borrowed blade trembling in his hand.
Up close, the knight's face was visible through the shattered visor - pale, lifeless, eyes glassy with enchantment.
William's jaw tightened. "Forgive me."
He wiped the sword on the fallen banner and turned toward the door. The city beyond lay in chaos - the skyline burning, smoke rising from the palace quarter. The night smelled of iron and sorcery.
Somewhere out there, Elyon was alone.
He gripped the sword tighter. "Hold on," he murmured. "I'm coming."
A distant howl answered him - long, low, and mournful. Not human. Not entirely beast, either.
William's pulse quickened. The sound echoed inside him, resonating in his bones like a forgotten name.
He looked up at the moon again, feeling the beast stir once more. The edges of his vision shimmered. His reflection in the broken window blurred - his pupils narrowing, a flash of gold in the dark.
He staggered back, breathing fast. "Not now," he growled through clenched teeth. "Not yet."
But the echo of that howl did not fade. It followed him as he stepped out of the chapel and into the ruin-strewn streets of Nitchgard - the prince with a blade in his hand and a monster beneath his skin.