A profound exhalation left Elara Thorne’s lips, a silent gasp of reprieve. Her hand lowered the arcane speaking-tube, the cool brass a counterpoint to the sudden warmth blossoming in her chest. Deep Labs had confirmed it: Lord Valerius, though awake, had succumbed to an ‘Arcane Hypersomnia.’ Unpredictable, extended sleep. A blessed, terrifying respite. Deep within the Aethelgard Estate’s labyrinthine corridors, Dr. Alaric, head physician of Deep Labs’ Aethelgard annex, replaced his own speaking-tube with a soft click. He furrowed his brow, a faint confusion lingering. Elara Thorne’s voice, so brittle and formal moments prior, had brightened with an almost unsettling buoyancy at his news. Strange. Valerius’s awakening had been a miracle of arcane fortitude, his body recovering with unnatural speed. Yet, the miracle had been fleeting. Twelve days now, he had slept, a profound slumber that defied all known magical or physiological explanations. It was as if his very consciousness had plunged into the deepest currents of the Nether, leaving his physical form suspended. Alaric had observed him closely. Before the deep sleep had claimed him, Valerius had stirred. Eyelids fluttered open, dark as midnight pools, before slitting to mere lines. Alaric had approached, quill in hand, ready to document any coherent thought. A low, guttural murmur had escaped Valerius’s throat, words fragmented, yet imbued with an unmistakable command. “Do not… summon me.” Alaric still felt a chill recalling that moment. It wasn’t a plea, but an imperial directive, even from the edge of unconsciousness. He’d scribbled it down, though the precise meaning remained elusive. Perhaps a symptom of residual trauma, a fragmented memory of a binding ritual that had claimed him. He rubbed his chin, the scratchy sound amplified in the quiet office. Aethelgard Estate, with its ancient wards and isolation, was a facility for containment and observation, not a cutting-edge hospital. Director Thorne’s decision to house Lord Valerius here, rather than a more equipped magical sanatorium, struck him as highly irregular. But his oath of service, and the substantial stipend attached to his post, kept his questions unspoken. “A minor detail,” he murmured to himself, tapping his temple. He had forgotten to inform Elara Thorne of the full spectrum of Arcane Hypersomnia’s side effects. It wasn’t merely extended slumber. The ancient texts hinted at periods of intense primal behavior: profound hunger, unbridled aggression, heightened senses, and a terrifying disassociation from reality. But Valerius was sleeping now. He would be fine for tonight. Just a single night. Nothing could possibly happen. --- Elara hummed a tuneless melody as she moved through the upper gallery, a rare lightness in her step. The reprieve was intoxicating. For weeks, she had walked a knife’s edge, her fabricated binding a desperate gamble against a primal power she barely understood. Now, Valerius was incapacitated, harmless. She felt like a trapped bird suddenly finding its cage door ajar. She neared the antechamber of Valerius’s ward, the air growing cool here, carrying the faint scent of ozone and something akin to damp earth. Her hand reached for the wrought-iron handle, fingers brushing against the cold metal. A sharp, grating sound, like stone dragged over iron, echoed from beyond the heavy oak door. Her light step faltered. The sound repeated, closer now. A cold dread seeped into her bones. The specialized wards surrounding Valerius’s chamber, designed to detect even subtle shifts in arcane energies, should have remained silent. Yet, a low, thrumming vibration now pulsed through the floorboards beneath her feet. “No,” she whispered, her earlier relief dissolving into a bitter taste. She pressed her ear to the thick wood. The grating stopped. A moment of chilling silence followed, then a deep, resonant growl, more animal than human, vibrated through the door. She fumbled with her ward-keys, her fingers suddenly clumsy. The heavy oak portal, reinforced with etched iron and potent stasis spells, should have held. She pushed it inward, a gasp catching in her throat. The inner chambers were in disarray. Ancient tapestries were shredded from their hooks, their threads scattered like bloodless entrails. A heavy arcane brazier, designed to contain volatile energies, lay toppled, its glowing embers extinguished across the mosaic floor. And Valerius was gone. A frantic beat pulsed in her temples. Elara moved through the ruined room, her eyes darting for any sign. A deep gouge marred the polished stone floor, as if something impossibly heavy had been dragged across it. The external door, reinforced with a matrix of binding spells, hung askew on one hinge, its iron bolts twisted like cheap wire. The air outside felt colder, sharper, charged with a faint, wild energy. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the arcane communicator. Should she alert the Watchers? Director Thorne? The thought pricked at her pride. This was *her* lie, *her* responsibility. Revealing the truth now, admitting her desperate fabrication, would be far more dangerous than confronting the immediate threat. She tied back her unruly auburn hair with a practiced flick, her jaw tightening. She would handle this herself. Lantern clutched in hand, she descended the exterior steps, moving swiftly into the moon-drenched grounds of Aethelgard. The silence of the night was broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant, mournful cry of an unseen owl. A chilling sensation crawled up her spine. Something felt profoundly wrong. The scent of ozone had intensified, mingled now with a faint, metallic tang. She scanned the ancient yew mazes and manicured lawns, her gaze searching for any disturbance. A trail, distinct and horrifying, led from the breached door. It wasn’t a footprint. It was a path of unnatural stillness, where the dew on the grass had been scorched away, leaving behind dry, brittle stalks. Further on, a line of ancient, twisted shrubbery lay snapped and uprooted, as if a colossal, unseen force had plowed through it. It spoke of immense strength, undirected and untamed. “Valerius,” she breathed, her voice a thin whisper against the vast silence. He truly was a force of nature, untethered by his conscious mind. The absurdity of her situation, of her fabricated marriage to this sleeping beast, threatened a hysterical laugh. She forced it down, following the trail, deeper into the estate’s wilder, less frequented gardens, where the moon cast long, dancing shadows. The metallic tang grew stronger, cloying and visceral. A low, ragged tearing sound reached her ears, followed by a wet, sickening crunch. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She moved around a dense thicket of thorns, the lantern beam cutting through the oppressive darkness. There he stood. Lord Valerius, his back to her, silhouetted against the pale moonlight. His once pristine nightclothes were torn and stained, clinging to the powerful expanse of his shoulders. His head was bowed over something dark and shapeless. The tearing sound resumed, punctuated by a deep, satisfied groan. “Valerius! Stop!” she shouted, the words ripping from her throat. Her voice cracked, betraying her terror. He paused, a muscle flexing in his jaw. The raw flesh, unmistakably the carcass of a grounds-hare, hung limp in his grasp, its fur matted with dark, viscous fluid. He had been tearing at it with his bare teeth. A smear of red stained his chin, stark against his pale skin. She almost vomited, the bile rising in her throat. He looked like an ancient predator, caught in the act. His eyes, when he slowly lifted his head to face her, were unfocused, dark pools that seemed to gaze through her, not at her. Blank. Primal. This was not the man she had bound with her lie, but something far older, far more dangerous. “Come back to your chambers, Valerius,” she urged, her voice trembling but trying for authority. “You are not well. You shouldn’t be out here.” She took a cautious step forward, attempting to project calm, to remind him of her supposed place by his side, the fabricated claim. His gaze, however, remained chillingly unreadable. He dropped the hare carcass. It landed with a soft, wet thud, forgotten. He turned fully towards her. Moonlight caught the powerful lines of his body, visible beneath the tattered fabric. He seemed taller, broader, his presence filling the shadowed glade with a raw, undeniable power. His arms and legs were smudged with earth and what looked like ash, his hair disheveled, falling across his brow. He moved, not with a human stride, but with a low, deliberate crawl, closer and closer. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, but her feet remained rooted. When he stood before her, two heads taller, his cold, blank gaze fixed on her face. The faint wind stirred his ruined clothing, revealing the taut musculature of his chest and limbs, a terrifying testament to his dormant power. Elara felt a strange, horrifying awe. She thought of the ancient tales she had preserved, of beings from a time before humanity, colossal and untamed, like the mythical Blood-Trees of the Ashwood Peaks, their bark weeping a crimson sap. “Valerius,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible. “Who…” he rasped, the single word hoarse and deep, devoid of inflection. “Who… claims?” His question struck her like a physical blow, a blade at the throat of her lie. Her mind raced, desperate for an answer, any answer. But only silence followed, as profound and terrifying as the blank stare in his eyes.

A Beast in the Garden