Yaro’s light pulsed, casting long, wavering shadows across the grand foyer. Casimir’s sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine alarm as he glanced from the orb to Yaro’s unyielding face. Stellan’s hand, still clutching the hunting knife, remained steady, but his focus had shifted slightly, a protective instinct warring with the tension of the standoff.
“A boy with a trinket,” Casimir scoffed, though his voice lacked its usual bluster. “Put it down, Vodyan. Do not invite greater trouble.”
“It’s not a trinket, Volkov,” Lenka interjected, her voice low and sharp. “It’s a disruptor. Concentrated alchemical fire. Enough to bring down this entire section of the manor. And Yaro is not afraid to use it.”
Just as Casimir seemed poised to retort, a low, guttural moan echoed from deep within Stellan. His grip on Casimir’s arm tightened involuntarily, his knuckles turning white. His spine jerked, frost riming the collar of his coat as the marrow-deep convulsion took him.
Then, the sound came from outside. A thunderous crash, followed by the splintering of ancient oak. A shout. Another. The distinct clang of steel against stone, closer now, then the shriek of a warhorn, raw and piercing. Marev’s forces were here.
Stellan let go of Casimir, staggering back a step, clutching his head. His features contorted, veins bulging at his temples. “They’re here,” he rasped, his voice rough, barely human. “The full moon…”
Lenka looked up. Through the vast, high window of the foyer, a silver orb, full and luminous, hung heavy in the black sky, casting an ethereal glow over the frozen landscape. The beast’s hour had arrived.
“Yaro, the east entrance! The collapsing floorboards, then the ice chute to the lower levels!” Lenka commanded, her voice cutting through the rising din. “Keep them away from the main hall! Casimir, your men are useless here. If you want to live, help secure the west wing. Drop the grate in the archives. And the rest of you,” she swept her gaze over the five Kray retainers who had appeared, armed with axes and long knives, “the central portcullis, now! Cut off their advance!”
The retainers sprang into action, moving with a practiced speed that belied their age. Yaro, still clutching the glowing orb, darted down a side corridor, his small frame surprisingly swift. Casimir, momentarily stunned by the sudden chaos, found himself caught between the attacking forces and Lenka’s sharp orders. He hesitated, then barked at his own men, gesturing wildly towards the archives. Survival, it seemed, was a stronger motivator than pride.
Lenka grabbed Stellan’s arm. His skin felt unnaturally warm, his muscles rigid beneath her touch. He let out another pained growl, his teeth elongating, his eyes beginning to gleam with a predatory light. “The vault, Stellan! Now!”
He fought her, his strength surging, but not against her. Against himself. His body bucked, his spine arching as if an invisible force sought to tear him apart from within. His clothes began to strain at the seams, tearing as his frame broadened. His movements were no longer human. He swung his head, a terrifying snarl ripping from his throat, his gaze distant, unfocused.
“Focus on the vault!” Lenka yelled, hauling his shoulder toward the corridor. “Don’t let them see you like this!”
Outside, the manor’s defenses roared to life. A reinforced stone portcullis slammed down with a deafening crash, severing the main hall from the outer courtyards. The ground shuddered as another section of flooring gave way, a chorus of surprised shouts and screams echoing from below. A moment later, a series of illusory snowdrifts shimmered into existence near a secondary entrance, disorienting a squad of Marev’s soldiers who stumbled blindly into a concealed pitfall.
But the invaders were many. More warhorns blared, signaling different entry points. The manor was a tactical labyrinth, but it was being assaulted from all sides. Lenka knew they couldn't hold them off forever.
With a final surge of strength, Lenka managed to drag the thrashing Stellan towards a heavy, reinforced door disguised as a section of the wall. She fumbled with the complex locking mechanism, her fingers flying over the intricate gears and levers, the familiar patterns ingrained in her memory. The heavy door groaned open, revealing a small, stark chamber — the manor’s secure vault.
She shoved Stellan inside, following quickly, then slammed the door shut, twisting the enormous iron wheel to engage the multiple bolts. The clang of metal on metal was final, absolute. The sounds of the battle outside dimmed, replaced by the heavy thud of Stellan’s struggling form against the vault’s thick stone walls.
The air in the vault was cold and still. Only a single, dim runic lamp flickered in a recessed niche, casting dancing shadows. Stellan was no longer thrashing wildly. He stood hunched, his transformation nearly complete. His skin was now covered in coarse, dark fur, his limbs thick and powerful. His head was a monstrous approximation of a wolf’s, but his eyes, glowing a malevolent amber, were still recognizably his, filled with a raw, primal agony.
He let out a pained whimper, a sound so heart-wrenching it tore at Lenka. Then, with a terrifying growl, he launched himself at her. She didn’t move. Her training screamed at her to defend, to parry, to evade. But she stood her ground, her gaze locked on the beast, searching for the man within.
His claws, long and obsidian, tore through the air, stopping mere inches from her face. A feral shriek ripped from his throat, but he hesitated, his hulking frame shuddering. The amber eyes darted, wild and desperate. He was fighting it.
“Stellan,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the terror that threatened to consume her. “It’s me. Lenka. Do you recall the academy? Think of that week before the winter solstice exams. You spent three nights straight in the library, trying to decipher the ancient texts, and I kept bringing you burnt pastries from the kitchens.”
The beast’s ears twitched. Its head tilted, a low, rumbling growl emanating from its chest. Its claws, still raised, wavered.
“You always hated my cooking,” she continued, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. “But you ate them anyway, because you were too stubborn to admit you were hungry. You called me ‘the Architect of Culinary Catastrophes’.”
The beast let out a sound that was half growl, half whine. It lowered its head slightly, broad shoulders heaving. A flicker of something human, a spark of memory, seemed to cross its eyes.
But the rage was too strong. The pain of the transformation, the curse, overwhelmed the fragile connection. With a renewed snarl, it struck. Not with its claws, but with a heavy forearm, a blow that sent her sprawling against the vault wall. A searing pain shot through her side, and she tasted blood.
The beast lumbered over her, its hot, ragged breath washing over her face. Its amber eyes were wide, filled with a tormented fury. It pressed her down, its immense weight pinning her, one clawed hand closing around her throat. The pressure was immense, crushing. Her vision began to blur. Through the haze, she saw the raw, desperate anguish in its eyes. It was tearing itself apart.
“I did it to save my brother, Stellan. I’m sorry.”