The night after Ochar's royal feast was a long one for everyone in Elowen.
The palace still smelled of roses and wine, but the city below whispered a different story — a painter who dined with the Queen, a man whose beauty shamed angels.
Angela walked through the narrow streets with a storm in his chest.
He had given Ochar everything — fame, glory, women's attention — yet the man had taken even more. Now he had the Queen's heart too.
But Angela wasn't just jealous; he was hurt.
He had loved Ochar in his own strange way — half admiration, half hunger.
Still, he was clever.
And revenge, he thought, was best served warm — with wine, charm, and a little magic.
.....
The next morning, he went to Ochar's house — the small, ivy-covered home near the painter's quarter. The door was half-open.
He knocked gently, but it was Johnny who answered — his hair unkempt, eyes tired but hopeful.
"Mister Angela?" the boy asked. "You came back?"
Angela smiled faintly.
"I thought I'd see how you and your mother fare. I've… missed this place."
Johnny's eyes softened.
"We miss Ochar too. He's been gone for days. Mama says he's busy at the palace, but… he's not the same anymore. When he looks at us, it's like he's somewhere else."
The boy looked away, clutching a small wooden toy Ochar had carved for him.
"He used to laugh," Johnny said. "Now he just paints, and his eyes… they shine red sometimes."
Angela knelt beside him.
"Tell your mother I came by," he said softly. "And that I'll visit again soon."
As he turned to leave, an idea crept into his mind — dark, delicious, and cruel
...
That night, Angela sat in a tavern by the docks, staring into his cup of ale. Around him, rumors spread like wind — some said Ochar would marry the Queen, others that he was cursed by gods.
Angela's jaw tightened.
If Isla truly loved Ochar cayse ha had seen the way they did things , he would prove it — and if not… he would take something else that Ochar have.
He rose and went to the edge of the harbor, where the old sorcerer of Mirelight was known to live — a hermit who traded in secrets and potions.
....
The hut was damp, smelling of salt and blood. Candles burned with blue flame as the old man turned to face him.
"Ah," the sorcerer rasped, "another fool for love."
Angela's voice trembled slightly.
"I need a potion. To make a woman love me — even if her heart belongs elsewhere."
The old man grinned, showing blackened teeth.
"Love or madness? The difference is thin."
He reached for a small vial filled with crimson smoke.
"Pour it upon her while she sleeps. When she wakes, her heart will burn for you. But beware — love stolen is love that curses the thief."
Angela didn't care. He paid in gold and pride.
The Night of the Spell
It was late when Angela crept back into isla house. The wind howled outside, and the fire in the hearth had died down.
He moved like a shadow through the hallway until he found her room.
Isla lay asleep — peaceful, her hair spread like gold across the pillow. The moonlight through the window touched her face gently.
Angela stood there for a moment, torn between guilt and desire. Then he uncorked the vial.
A faint red mist rose, swirling in the air like silk. He poured it carefully over her face and lay beside her, his heartbeat wild.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Isla stirred. Her lips parted, her breathing deepened. Slowly, her hand found his chest.
She opened her eyes — and they glowed faintly, not with horror, but longing.
"Angela?" she whispered, half-dreaming.
He swallowed hard.
"Yes," he said. "It's me."
She smiled, dazed, and pressed her head against him.
Outside, the storm began to break.
The Painter Returns
At that same moment, in the palace, Ochar woke with a scream.
His veins burned — the thirst was back, cruel and sudden. The Queen slept beside him, but her scent didn't stir his hunger.
No — it was something else, a voice in his head whispering:
Go home.
Without waiting for dawn, he left the palace and ran through the empty streets of Elowen. His cloak whipped in the wind, his heart a drumbeat of rage and confusion.
When he reached his door, he sensed something wrong but instead of enter his house he turns to isla own.
The air was warm, heavy — and inside, he heard whispers.
He pushed the door open meeting the shock of his life
The moonlight spilled into the room — and there, on his bed, lay Isla… in Angela's arms.
For a moment, time froze. The world stopped breathing.
Isla lifted her head, her eyes soft and dream-blurred, and smiled.
"You came back," she whispered — but not to him. Her gaze was still on Angela.
Ochar's throat went dry. He stepped forward slowly, his eyes burning red.
Angela sat up, his face pale but defiant.
"It's not what it seems," he said, though his voice shook.
Ochar didn't blink.
"Then tell me," he said quietly, "what it is."
No answer came. Only silence — and the faint scent of sorcery in the air.
His claws began to show.
The beast was waking.