Anya stared at the empty space where Damir’s hand had been. The heat clung to her fingertips. His words echoed in the sudden quiet of the vast dining hall. Sympathy, a poison. The vulnerability she had glimpsed had vanished, replaced by an impassive stare. She pushed her chair back, its legs scraping against the floorboards. Her pride stiffened her spine. She had almost forgotten herself. Almost fallen into the trap of softness that Vasha had always warned against. “As you wish, Lord Sarkov,” Anya said, her voice carefully devoid of inflection. “I have no intention of offering you anything you deem poisonous.” She rose, her movements fluid and controlled, ignoring the knot of frustrated curiosity in her gut. She would not allow him to see the minute disquiet his sudden withdrawal had caused. He merely watched her, his grey gaze unreadable, a silent dismissal. Anya turned and left the dining hall, the heavy oak doors closing behind her with a thud that seemed to seal away the unsettling interaction. Back in her lavish prison, Anya paced. The silver bars outside her window gleamed dully under the pallid light of the rising moon, a stark reminder of her confinement. Hours crawled by, each tick of the distant clock amplifying the unsettling quiet of the keep. The air cooled as drafts seeped beneath the sill. The journal entries she’d devoured earlier that day replayed in her mind: fragmented accounts of a bloodline bound to a beast, of a rage that consumed, of uncontrollable power. She glanced at the window again. The full orb of the moon had ascended, casting stark shadows across the crags. A low, guttural sound, like stones grinding against each other, vibrated through the floorboards. It was not the growl she’d heard before; this was deeper, more primal, edged with a terrifying agony. Then came another sound, unmistakable even through the thick walls: a shriek, quickly cut off, followed by a violent crash that made the very foundations of the keep tremble. Anya gripped the bedpost, listening intently. This was not the measured thrum of a curse manifesting; this was outright destruction. She moved to her door, pressing an ear against the heavy wood. Another crash, closer this time, accompanied by a frantic, half-choked cry that she recognized as Krysztof’s. The sound of splintering timber, the desperate, ragged panting of something immensely powerful. Something was loose. Something that was tearing the keep apart. Survival superseded curiosity. Her fingers flew to the simple lock on her door. It wasn’t an elaborate mechanism, but it had been designed for a quick, secure closing, not to withstand a skilled hand. A slender pick, a twist of tension, a soft click. The heavy door swung open, revealing the darkened corridor. The air smelled of ozone, burnt fur, and damp stone. She moved silently, a shadow flitting through the gloom, following the sounds of chaos that pulsed from the lower levels. She descended a grand, spiraling staircase, the polished stone echoing with the distant cacophony. The sounds led her to the great hall, a space she had only glimpsed from a distance. Stealing to a shadowed archway, Anya peered in. The vast hall was a ruin. Chunks of plaster lay scattered across the marble floor; a massive stone pillar lay toppled, its base shattered into gravel. And in the center of the devastation stood Krysztof, his face ashen, clutching a heavy, spiked chain that strained against something immense. The other end of the chain was secured to a truly monstrous figure. It was Damir, yet it was not. He was a colossal beast, nearly twice the height of a man, covered in coarse, dark fur that seemed to absorb the moonlight, making him a shifting void of shadow and muscle. His head was brutish, his snout revealing rows of dagger-like fangs. Claws, long and obsidian, tipped fingers that were now grotesque talons, had ripped through the very stone of the keep. His eyes, the only part that retained a semblance of Damir, glowed with an eerie, feral gold, burning with an unholy rage that twisted his features into a mask of pure, untamed horror. He thrashed against the chain, a low growl reverberating from his chest, a sound that was less animal and more the grinding of tectonic plates. Krysztof, despite his terror, clung to the chain with a desperate strength, his voice hoarse. “Hold, my lord! Fight it! Remember yourself!” The Beast roared, a sound that shook the flagstones, and lunged, yanking Krysztof off his feet. The chain, already stressed, shrieked, then snapped with a deafening crack. Krysztof flew backward, slamming into a broken table, lying still. The Beast was free. Its glowing eyes, filled with an unfathomable agony and fury, swept the hall, then locked onto Anya in her shadowed archway. A guttural snarl tore from its throat, and it charged, a blur of shadow and raw power. Anya held her ground, steadying her breath. The Beast, its massive form filling her vision, was upon her in heartbeats. Its hot, fetid breath washed over her as it loomed, golden eyes blazing, a clawed hand rising to strike. But then, she remembered the journal, the passages describing the Beast’s internal struggle, its connection to its human self. She had read about the name. The name that anchored it. “Damir,” she said, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the Beast’s snarl. “Damir Sarkov.” The Beast froze. Its claw, inches from her face, trembled. The golden light in its eyes flickered, a momentary confusion warring with the primal rage. It lowered its head slightly, a soft, questioning sound rumbling deep in its chest, almost a whimper. The agony she had glimpsed in the man flickered across the beast's blunt muzzle. And then she saw it. Around its thick, furred neck, nestled against the monstrous bulk of its chest, was the intricate silver locket Damir had worn at dinner. It gleamed faintly, almost absorbed by the shadows of its fur, yet it was undeniably there. Recognition arrested her thoughts. The 'Heart of the Mountain'. It wasn't a gemstone. It was that locket. The very thing that seemed to anchor him, even in this horrifying form. Her contract with Vasha fell to the back of her mind. It was no longer about an object; it was about a man, and the cursed magic that bound him. She took a step forward, her hand slowly extending towards the snarling, bewildered Beast, towards the locket on its chest.

The First Full Moon