There was no way he could change what the power desired, not when this was what it truly wanted. It always came with risk—because when it stirred, it wasn't just power. It was hunger. A will of its own.
He grit his teeth, tightening his grip on the branch he stood upon, trying to suppress the rising surge inside. But the wolf's energy—so close to his own—it called to him, almost like a familiar song echoing from some buried part of him.
"Aramith?" Mozrael's voice came gently.
He didn't answer.
His glowing purple eyes flickered violently, and dark wisps curled from his arms like smoke from a waking fire. The wolf below roared again, this time far more monstrous than before. Though the sound was muffled, and vision was distorted due to the darkness, he could tell Its body had grown—not just in size, but in darkness. Its black fur shimmered unnaturally, and its limbs cracked and shifted, becoming more beastly, more corrupted.
