It was sunset.
To the east, dusk crept in, heavy and brooding. But to the west, the sky blazed with streaks of vermilion, gold, and deep violet—an emperor retiring beneath a jeweled canopy.
Lumea shimmered in the last golden light. The domes, towers, and palaces glowed as if dipped in fire, and the Arno's gentle waves caught the colors like molten glass. Along the riverbanks, music drifted from villas and casinos—laughter, song, and celebration blooming like a garden of sound.
It was the last day of the month—a time when Lumea came alive. Lights sparked to life behind latticed windows. The perfume of rare flowers spilled into the air, mingling with the melody of harps and violins. The city, bathed in beauty and joy, shone like a dream.
But dreams can turn to nightmares.
As the sun dipped below the hills, flowers closed like sleepy eyes, and the sky darkened. A dense shadow, formless and vast, stretched across the heavens until stars blinked into view like scattered diamonds.
Then—
A scream. Wild. Unnatural. Inhuman.
Deep in a wooded grove along the Arno, a man writhed on the ground, convulsing as if possessed.
Young. Handsome. Clothed in splendor.
But agony twisted his face. Madness flared in his eyes. He clutched his head, shrieking:
"No....no!"
As if battling an unseen demon, he thrashed violently. Lightning seemed to flicker in his eyes. His soul was on fire.
And then—his body began to change.
His noble face stretched into something feral. Clothes tore as coarse fur erupted across his skin. His limbs reshaped, spine twisted—and with a final, heart-wrenching howl, the man vanished.
In his place stood a monstrous wolf.
It lunged through the trees like a storm unleashed.
Over fields and hills it raced, a blur of shadow and teeth. Trees and cottages flew past in an instant. Even the hills seemed to leap away from its path.
A cemetery appeared—sacred ground. But the beast charged through without hesitation.
White tombstones glowed ghostlike in the dark. Atop the hill stood the ancient Church of Saint Michael. Its ivy-covered tower loomed overhead, casting long shadows.
Monks emerged, bearing torches for a midnight funeral. Light flickered against stone, painting the scene with eerie fire.
Then chaos.
The Werewolf burst through the funeral procession, howling. Cries of terror shattered the silence. The pallbearers dropped the coffin. A decomposed body spilled onto the ground, grinning in death's mockery.
One old monk was struck down, his skull cracked against a monument. Blood stained the sacred earth.
And still the beast ran.
Across meadows and through valleys. A howling storm on four legs.
In its wake, silence died.
Villages vanished behind it. In one, a flaxen-haired child played by a cottage. The wolf didn't pause.
A scream. A mother's cry. Then silence.
The child lay in blood.
The creature never stopped. It was driven—cursed. No rest, no mercy. Through fields, over fences, through gardens and groves. Dogs gave chase, a chorus of baying hounds, but none could match its fury.
They attacked, teeth bared—but were thrown aside, scattered like leaves in the wind.
The moon rose, cold and full. Still the Werewolf ran.
Midnight came. A bell tolled. The beast ran faster, as if racing time itself.
A poor man, tending an ox, watched in horror as the wolf streaked past. The ox panicked, turned, and gored its master to death.
Onward. Through forest paths and rocky slopes. Its howls echoed through the mountains, a dirge for all who crossed its path.
Near two in the morning, it emerged from a valley and startled a group of village girls carrying dairy goods to a distant town.
The foremost girl—young, rosy, smiling—froze in terror.
Then screamed.
She stumbled, rolled down a steep bank, and vanished beneath the black water of a river.
Her companions cried out, their voices joining the current in despair. The girl was gone.
The air turned colder. Wind howled through the trees. The forest of Lumea loomed ahead once more—where it all began.
The beast was slowing. Foam dripped from its mouth. Steam rose from its body like smoke. Exhausted, yet still driven by some hellish force.
And then—light.
A faint glow in the east. Dawn stirred.
Clouds veiled the sky, delaying the sunrise. The beast growled, enraged, impatient.
Its speed faltered. The curse lost power. It staggered.
Then came the chill. Convulsions seized it.
In the same grove where the horror began, the beast collapsed. The sky turned red, like blood on silk.
And when the first beam of sunlight pierced the trees—
The monster was gone.
Elias Roderick,was whole once more, lay upon the earth—a man again.
Young. Handsome. And damned.