The walk from the guild hall to his cottage was usually a peaceful one. Even tonight, the only sounds were the whisper of wind threading through the trees and the distant chirping of nocturnal creatures. His path, winding up the hill, cut through a dense thicket—once a seamless part of the Grimholt Wilds. That was before the labyrinth appeared a decade ago, severing the land with the sudden birth of the massive dungeon.

  Rowan glanced up at the moon, exhaling softly. It was perhaps the most beautiful full moon he had ever seen. A perfect silver disc against the dark, serene sky. And yet, to him, it meant only trouble. Creatures turned rabid under the full moon’s influence, instincts sharpened to lethal points. If he could just reach his cottage, he’d be safe within the barrier.

  The barrier itself had been a gift from an adventuring party that passed through from time to time. It was nothing compared to the towering wards surrounding the city, but it was a comfort. After all, if something strong enough to shatter it came knocking, a broken home would be the least of his worries.

  Rowan shook his head, dismissing the thought. His grip settled instinctively on his sword’s hilt as he strode deeper into the woods.

  “There’s nothing out here. There rarely is,” he muttered under his breath, more for reassurance than belief.

  A rustling ahead shattered that illusion.

  Steel flashed in the moonlight as Rowan’s sword was drawn in an instant, his reflexes rivaling any knight in the city’s sentry.

  A small herd of nycthare foraged in the undergrowth—a familiar sight. They resembled rabbits in shape, but their shimmering fur, feathered ear tufts, and wispy, bioluminescent tails marked them as something far more elusive. The largest of them stood on its hind legs, luminous eyes locking onto Rowan’s own. It let out a single, soft squeak—then, in a heartbeat, the entire herd scattered, vanishing like mist on the wind.

  His blood ran cold.

  The woods had fallen deathly silent.

  Rowan barely twisted out of the way as something lunged from the shadows.

  The monster was massive—a nightmare of silver and gold fur, its claws gleaming like forged daggers. Its head was more akin to a lion than a wolf, maybe it was something caught between—along with a predator’s snarl carved into a face both regal and feral.

  "No," Rowan thought, dread sinking into his bones. "This is not just a beast, this was a werewolf."

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  He swallowed hard, forcing down the terror clawing at his throat. He refused to die here.

  Yet it wasn’t the creature’s sheer size that chilled him, nor the brutal strength humming beneath its skin. It was the way it moved—silent where there should have been thunderous footfalls. A ghost of a thing that should have been bound by flesh and weight, but instead prowled with a deathly grace.

  Those piercing blue eyes burned with something raw--rage, hunger…something deeper. But the werewolf made no sound.

  Rowan didn’t have time to analyze it further. His grip tightened around his silver-plated sword. If it could bleed, it could die.

  For a fleeting moment, something flickered in the beast’s gaze—recognition? Curiosity? A spark of sentience?

  Then, just as quickly, it was snuffed out.

  The werewolf’s eyes guttered from ice-blue to a hellish crimson. A guttural growl built in its throat, swelling into a soul-rattling howl before it lunged—this time with pure, unhinged violence.

  Rowan was fast. The beast was faster.

  Steel met flesh as he struck, his blade biting deep into its chest. The werewolf stumbled, snarling—not just in fury, but in pain. Yet it did not stop. It did not hesitate. It pressed forward, relentlessly, each strike of Rowan’s sword doing little more than slowing its advance.

  He slashed again, his movements desperate now, survival eclipsing technique. For a moment—a single, foolish moment—he thought he could win.

  Then the fangs found him.

  Pain, white-hot and blinding, exploded as the beast tore into his shoulder, shredding flesh like parchment. Rowan gasped, his vision flickering at the edges. He willed himself to move, to fight, because if he fell now—someone else would be next.

  The werewolf reared back, claws poised for the killing blow.

  Then—its body stiffened. A choked snarl tore from its throat as agony bloomed in its core.

  Rowan had struck.

  The enchanted rapier had found its mark, impaling through fur and flesh, stopping inches from the heart. The werewolf staggered, eyes wide—not just in pain, but in something deeper. Fear.

  With a snarl, it batted Rowan aside like a ragdoll, sending him crashing into a tree with bone-jarring force.

  The sharp, acrid scent of burning flesh filled the air as the creature yanked the sword from its chest. Black blood poured from the wound, sizzling against the cursed metal.

  And for the first time, the monster hesitated.

  It knew. It knew it could not fight this magic. This blade was made to kill monsters like him.

  It locked eyes with the battered human one last time. Then, instincts screamed louder than pride, and it ran—vanishing into the dark before death could claim it.

  For now, the boy would live. If his wounds—or the curse now writhing in his veins—didn’t claim him first.