The night had teeth.
Wind howled through the valley, carrying whispers that did not belong to the living. The moon—swollen, red as spilled blood—hung low above the village of Carden, bathing every stone and rooftop in a crimson hue. Even the air seemed to tremble beneath its gaze.
Marcus stood alone outside the forge, his breath forming mist in the cold. The dreams had returned again—louder, sharper, closer. He could still feel the echo of claws scraping inside his chest, the distant roar that seemed to come from within his own heart.
Behind him, the forge's fire flickered weakly. Old Duncan was nowhere to be seen; the tools lay scattered, as if he had left in haste.
Marcus muttered, "He never leaves the fire unattended…"
Then, a faint metallic clang broke the silence—coming from the woods beyond the fence.
Marcus turned sharply. "Duncan?"
No answer.
He grabbed a lantern and stepped toward the trees. The moment his boots touched the grass, the wind died. Silence fell—thick, suffocating, and wrong. Even the insects had fled.
Deeper into the forest, he found a trail of soot and blood. The soil was torn as if something had been dragged—something heavy. The lantern flickered, fighting against the darkness that felt alive, crawling toward him from between the trees.
Marcus's pulse quickened. "Not again…"
And then he saw it.
The blacksmith's hammer—half buried in the mud. Beside it, Duncan's pendant, snapped clean in two.
A growl rumbled through the forest. Not a wolf's growl—something deeper, something human.
Marcus's voice trembled. "Who's there?"
No response. Only the sound of breathing. Heavy. Close.
From the shadows emerged a shape—massive, hunched, covered in coarse fur that glistened with fresh blood. Its arms were long, ending in claws that dug into the ground like daggers. But the worst was its face—half-man, half-beast, eyes glowing with the same red light that haunted Marcus's dreams.
Marcus staggered back, his heart slamming against his ribs. "No… no, this can't be real…"
The creature stepped into the moonlight—and spoke.
"Marcus…"
The voice was broken, guttural, yet familiar.
It took him a moment to recognize it.
"Duncan…?"
The creature's jaws trembled. "Run…"
And then it screamed—a sound so raw it shattered the stillness of the forest. The transformation consumed it entirely; bones cracked, flesh tore, and the man that was Duncan vanished, replaced by the monster that had taken his place.
Marcus dropped the lantern, its flame dying instantly. He turned and ran, branches whipping his face, his lungs burning. The forest seemed endless, shifting around him like a maze. Behind him, the beast gave chase, its roars tearing through the night.
"Damn it—DAMN IT!" Marcus shouted, forcing his legs to move faster.
He burst out of the forest and into the village square—empty, silent, wrong. Every window was dark, every door closed. The bell at the chapel's tower began to ring on its own, tolling like a heartbeat of doom.
The villagers emerged one by one—sleepwalking, eyes wide, faces pale. And in every single one of them, Marcus saw the reflection of the same red light that burned inside the beast.
He fell to his knees. "What… what is this?"
Then he heard it again—the whisper that had haunted his dreams.
"You are the key, Marcus. You are the first."
The villagers began to scream as their bodies convulsed, skin tearing, bones twisting. One by one, they fell to the ground, rising again not as men—but as monsters.
The Blood Moon above pulsed like a beating heart.
Marcus's scream echoed through the valley—half human, half something else—as black veins crawled up his neck and across his eyes.
"NO! I WON'T—BECOME—THIS!"
But the world did not care.
The wind rose again, carrying the scent of iron and ash. And from the tower of the inverted castle, far beyond mortal sight, a figure watched—cloaked in shadow, smiling beneath the moonlight.
"Finally," it murmured, "the Lord of Monster awakens."
To be continued…