The wind whipped through the crags of Ardenfell like a whispering ghost, carrying with it the scents of damp earth and pine. Weymond Hale crouched atop the jagged rocks, his dark cloak fluttering behind him as he surveyed the valley below. Villagers moved in scattered groups, their lanterns faintly glowing against the encroaching dusk, unaware of the shadow that watched them.
He had lived like this for years—always on the edges, always alone. And for good reason. The curse he bore was no idle tale; it was a storm inside him, a force he could neither control nor fully understand. Every emotion—fear, anger, sorrow—was a trigger, and every trigger risked unleashing the beast that lurked beneath his skin.
Tonight, the air felt different. Tense. Heavy. His chest ached with a strange anticipation, and his fingers twitched involuntarily. He tried to focus on the cold rocks beneath him, on the distant hum of life in the village, but the tension in his body was insistent.
A scream pierced the evening air. Sharp, human, and full of terror. Weymond's head snapped toward the sound. A child had wandered too close to the edge of the river, struggling against the current. His first instinct was to stay hidden, to retreat into the shadows where he belonged. He was dangerous. He had learned that lesson the hard way.
But the boy's cries struck something deep in him. Something that wasn't just survival. Without thinking, Weymond leapt from the rocks, landing silently on the forest floor. The wind howled around him as he sprinted, muscles coiling and releasing with unnatural precision.
The curse stirred, sensing his intent. He felt it then—the low, almost imperceptible growl that rose from deep inside him, a vibration that resonated through his bones. He clenched his jaw, willing it to stay buried, but the beast responded anyway, brushing the edges of consciousness like a shadow clawing at light.
By the time he reached the riverbank, the boy was already teetering dangerously close to the water. Weymond's hands shot out, catching him just as he slipped. Relief and fear intertwined in a way that made his chest constrict.
"You… you saved me!" the boy stammered, eyes wide, trembling in his tiny hands.
Weymond knelt, keeping his gaze low. "Go back to your village," he said, his voice low and rough, a warning buried within it. "Don't follow me."
The boy nodded, scampering away, oblivious to the quiet storm he had narrowly escaped. Weymond exhaled, but the relief was fleeting. The beast had tasted action, had felt the surge of his emotions. It growled again, quieter this time, like a predator simmering just beneath the surface. He pressed his palms against his knees, willing his heartbeat to slow, willing the tremor in his limbs to subside.
"Not now," he muttered under his breath, staring at the flowing water. He could almost hear the whispers of the villagers' old stories—stories he had long tried to ignore. Beast-Bearers. Monsters. Men cursed to bring ruin wherever they went. He had been one of them for as long as he could remember, yet every new incident reminded him how little he truly controlled the creature inside.
The forest around him shifted in the growing dark, and Weymond's senses picked up every movement: the snap of a twig, the flutter of wings, the subtle rustle of leaves. The curse sharpened his perception, made him aware of the smallest detail, but it also made him a prisoner of his own hyper-awareness. One wrong step, one surge of anger, one moment of carelessness, and he could lose himself completely.
He rose, brushing the mud from his boots, and began the long trek back to his isolated cabin. Ardenfell's nights were beautiful and cruel all at once—the moon casting silver streaks through the dense canopy, shadows shifting as though alive, and distant howls hinting at unseen predators. He moved silently, each step calculated, yet every movement carried the weight of restraint.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. For a moment, he froze. The beast inside him responded instantly, claws at the ready, teeth bared in the shadows of his mind. But when he turned, there was nothing—just the wind teasing the branches. Still, the sensation lingered: the world felt sharper tonight, as if the land itself was holding its breath.
When he finally reached the small cabin perched on the edge of a cliff, he locked the door behind him and leaned heavily against it. Inside, it was dark, cramped, and filled with the scent of herbs he used to calm his mind and suppress the curse. He moved to the hearth, lighting a small fire that cast dancing shadows on the walls. The warmth was a fragile comfort against the cold isolation he had chosen for himself.
He sank onto the floor, knees drawn up, staring into the flames. The beast was quiet for now, simmering beneath the surface, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it demanded release again. And with every passing day, he feared the moment when it would no longer allow him to restrain it.
"Why me?" he whispered to the empty room. The question had no answer, only the faint echo of the wind outside and the subtle, distant growl of something that was both him and not him.
Somewhere in Ardenfell, the village continued its nightly routines, unaware of the shadow that watched over them. They would never know the full extent of the danger—or the tragedy—contained in the man who lived alone, in the dark, cursed by a beast he could not yet understand.
And somewhere, deep in the corners of the forest, something watched him back, patient, waiting for the moment when the man and the curse would collide in ways neither could escape.
Weymond closed his eyes, trying to imagine a life where he could walk among people without fear. He had long ago stopped believing it was possible. But the ember of hope, faint and stubborn, lingered. And even a flicker was enough to make a man chase a life he wasn't sure he could have.