Constantine's POV
It didn't take long.
By the following morning, Constantine had already prepared for his confinement. The servants knew the ritual by now—they moved through the manor with practiced efficiency, their faces carefully blank, their questions unasked. Heavy drapes were drawn across every window. The iron bar slid into place across his chamber door with a hollow clang, followed by the decisive click of the padlock.
He stood in the center of the room, listening to their retreating footsteps fade down the corridor. The silence that followed was absolute.
Constantine pressed his palm against the oak door, feeling the grain beneath his skin.
How many times had he done this? How many moons had he counted from behind these walls?
The guilt never lessened. It had always been the same damn thing. And the shame of what he became? Of what he needed? That had always been there too. But the alternative was far worse. He had seen what happened when men like him refused to acknowledge the beast within.
They became the beast entirely.
As night descended, he stripped down to his tunic, the thin linen doing little to conceal the muscled expanse of his chest. The fabric felt oppressive against his skin, every thread an irritation. His senses were already sharpening, heightening to a painful degree. He could hear the mice in the walls. The heartbeat of the guard stationed two floors below.
He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers curling into the sheets.
The candlelight painted the chamber in shades of amber and shadow, the flames dancing in their bronze holders. The warmth should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a mockery—all that heat, and still the cold spread through his veins like winter runoff.
Soon.
A knock at the door. Three taps, the servant's signal.
The padlock scraped. The bar lifted. And she slipped inside.
The woman from the pub.
She was pretty, in that world-worn way of women who had learned early that beauty was currency. Her dark hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, and she'd rouged her lips, her cheeks. The neckline of her dress plunged deliberately low.
"My lord," she purred, moving toward him with practiced grace. Her hips swayed. Her smile was honeyed, inviting. "They told me you required... company. For the entire night."
She thought she understood. They always did.
Constantine didn't move from the bed. The candlelight caught her throat as she tilted her head—the pale column of her neck, the steady flutter of her pulse beneath that delicate skin. He could see it. Could almost taste it.
The hunger stirred.
It uncoiled in his chest like a living thing, slithering up through his ribs, wrapping around his spine. His vision sharpened. The edges of the room grew clearer even as the woman before him softened into something else entirely—not a person, but a vessel. Warmth. Life. Sustenance.
She stepped closer, reaching for the laces of her bodice. "Shall I—"
"Stay there."
His voice came out rougher than intended. Darker. She paused, uncertainty flickering across her features for the first time.
"My lord?"
Constantine's jaw tightened. His fingers dug into the mattress hard enough to tear the fabric. The hunger was screaming now, drowning out every rational thought. Take her. Feed. It would be so easy—
A commotion erupted outside the door.
"I need to see the General!"
Benedict's voice, sharp with urgency, cut through the haze like a blade. There was scuffling, the protests of servants, something heavy striking the door.
"What the hell? What place are you bringing me to? I just need to see the General!"
The woman stumbled back, startled. Constantine's head snapped toward the door, the hunger momentarily leashed by confusion.
"General! Where are you?" Benedict was shouting now, his voice raw with something that might have been fear. Or excitement. With Benedict, they often sounded the same. "You said directly! I came running, bastard! I finally found it! Drag your ass out here now!"
Constantine rose from the bed.
The woman pressed herself against the wall, watching him with wide eyes, finally sensing, perhaps, that something was deeply wrong. That she had walked into a predator's den and only now realized the danger.
"Leave," Constantine said quietly. "Use the servant's passage. Do not look back."
She fled without argument.
Constantine crossed to the door, throwing back the bar with more force than necessary. The padlock still hung from its loop. Someone must had picked it. He yanked the door open to find Benedict half-restrained by two of his household guards, his traveling cloak askew and his face flushed with exertion.
"There you are," Benedict gasped. "Call off your dogs. We need to move."
"You have ten seconds to explain why you've interrupted my night."
"First off, why the hell are you... locked up?" Benedict asked, confusion sharp in his voice.
Constantine didn't answer right away. Instead, he dragged Benedict by the collar and slammed the door shut behind them.
"It's the Santelmo," Benedict said excitedly, eyes meeting Constantine's with an intensity that made his stomach sink. "I found it."
"How?"
Benedict let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "The place was tiny. Everyone was starving. I brought some food, tossed them a bit of money, told them it was from one of the good lords of House Valerius for the Winter Solstice celebration. They took it all, no questions asked. And while I had their attention, I slipped in a few... relevant questions," he said with a grin.
Constantine crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. "And?"
Benedict rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. "Alright, alright. I'm getting to it." He leaned in a little. "I found out from one of the villagers that there's a hidden trail—leads south, past the Diseptum's borders. Rangers hardly patrol it. It's like a blind spot for raiders. But no one wants to go there. Can you guess why?"
"It's a sacred place," Constantine said, a sharp edge to his voice.
Benedict flashed a quick grin. "Close. But no. As a matter of fact, they said it's haunted by a ball of fire. Fire, Constantine. You heard me right."
"How sure is this?"
"You said it yourself; there's always some truth behind the old lores and fairytales," Benedict said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The trail I was talking about? It leads to a village at the Diseptum's border."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Also, I managed to get two legends, lores, myth, whatever the fuck there are, about the Santelmo. They say anyone who catches it either gets cursed with bad luck for life, or they get everything they've ever wanted. All their wishes come true."
A flicker of hunger gnawed at the edges of Constantine's thoughts, but something colder replaced it. Something sharper, harder.
They had been hunting whispers of it for months. A weapon. A curse. A creature from the old world that should have stayed buried. And now, Benedict had found it.
Constantine looked back at his chamber; the rumpled bed, the guttering candles, the remnants of a ritual he'd performed a hundred times before.
"Prepare the horses," he said quietly.
The hunger would have to wait.
"Actually, we'd probably best to ride the mobile," Benedict grinned.
Constantine rolled his eyes and head back inside.
Everything they thought was just a myth might just be real.