The wagon rattled over frozen earth, every jolt driving the iron deeper into Rowan's wrists. He kept his eyes lowered, not out of submission, but because the moon above burned too brightly. Its light clawed at him, stirring the wolf that gnawed against his ribs.
The guards laughed around the campfire, their voices harsh against the quiet snow.
"A monster," one spat, tossing a bone into the flames. "Half-beast, half-demon. Better he rots in the capital's pit than walks among men."
Rowan did not answer. His silence was safer than words—safer for them, safer for him. Yet with every heartbeat, the second presence inside him stirred. Cold, patient, regal. The vampire's hunger, slick and crimson, rose like a tide.
Break the chains, it whispered. They are nothing to us.
The wolf snarled in reply, all instinct and fury: Run. Hunt. Tear them apart.
Rowan's hands trembled. He forced his breath into steady rhythm, anchoring himself in the storm. He had lived with these voices for as long as he could remember, but the moon's pull was stronger tonight. The night of transition.
A shadow fell across him. One of the guards leaned close, his grin missing teeth. "Not so fierce now, eh, beast? Tomorrow, the High Inquisitor will carve the truth from your marrow."
The firelight flickered across Rowan's face. For a moment, his eyes gleamed—one gold, one crimson.
The guard staggered back. "Devil's eyes," he muttered, crossing himself.
Rowan looked up at the silver chains biting his skin, and for the first time that night, he wondered if he truly wished to resist.
Then, from deep in the woods, a howl rose—low, mournful, and answered by another.The guards froze. Their laughter died.
Rowan's lips curved, the ghost of a smile.
The hunt has begun.