The night Ronan Vale was born, the moon bled red.
Old villagers still whispered about it—how the sky wept crimson, how the animals cried out in fear, how the healer's screams echoed like a curse through the pines. But none of them stayed to see what crawled out of the darkness that night. Not for long, anyway.
Nineteen years later, those whispers still chased him through every shadow.
Ronan crouched low in the underbrush, breath misting in the cold forest air. His icy blue eye flicked to the golden one glowing faintly in the dark—a warning. The scent had changed. Copper. Wet fur. Something fast. Something wrong.
"Three of them," he muttered, fingers tightening around the hilt of his greatsword. The runes carved into the blade shimmered faintly, reacting to his blood. "Of course it's three. It's always three."
They were coming. Not wolves. Not men. The kind of things that once looked human but weren't anymore—twisted by curses or clawed free of their minds. Ronan knew them well. He'd hunted worse. He was worse. On some nights.
He slid the silver blade from its sheath, watching lightning crackle down its edge, hungry and red. His Blood Rite ignited, fueled by the tiny cuts along his knuckles—self-inflicted, controlled, just enough to channel the curse. Just enough to keep it from breaking loose.
A growl rippled in his throat. Not his voice. Not quite.
Not yet, he reminded himself.
Then the first horror leapt from the trees—and Ronan moved like a storm.
The beast hit the ground where he'd been crouching a second earlier, jaws snapping shut on empty air.
Ronan twisted mid-roll and brought the flat of his sword up just in time to catch the creature's follow-up lunge. It snarled, a man-shaped thing with backward-bent limbs, no eyes, and too many teeth. The silver burned its flesh on contact, steam hissing from the wound as it screeched.
Ronan kicked it backward, eyes scanning the shadows.
The other two were circling. One on his left, low and fast. The other—above.
Damn it—
He dove sideways as a second beast crashed down from the branches, swiping at his head with claws like rusted hooks. It tore through a tree trunk instead, splinters raining like snow. Ronan landed hard, rolled again, then stood with his back to a rock wall. Trapped.
Good.
The sword in his hand pulsed with bloodlight. Crimson electricity danced along its edge, humming like a storm begging to break. Ronan's lip curled in a grin—not joy. Not bloodlust. Release.
"Come on, then," he muttered, eyes flaring. "Let's see who the real monster is."
The first charged again, mouth wide in a broken scream. Ronan met it head-on, swinging his blade in a wide arc. The lightning-fueled steel bit deep. One slash—two halves. It didn't even have time to die properly.
The second came in from the side, faster, smarter. It leapt high to avoid the blade.
Ronan let it.
He dropped low, slammed his clawed gauntlet into the beast's stomach mid-air, and flared the crimson current. Blood Rite surged through his arm—his blood, his pain, turned into power. The creature exploded backward in a crackle of bone and lightning, smoke rising from its chest.
That left one.
The third beast paused—just for a second. Just enough to think.
Ronan's grin vanished.
He stepped forward, dragging the sword behind him in the dirt. "You hesitated."
The hybrid's body began to shift. His arm twisted first—lengthening, cracking, fur sprouting in streaks of black and gray. His jaw stretched ever so slightly, just enough to show too-sharp teeth. Gold swallowed both eyes.
"Your last mistake."
The third creature tried to run.
Too late.
Ronan moved like a thunderbolt—no wasted motion, no sound but the crack of his boots and the roar of power flooding his limbs. The beast turned just in time to see the monster behind the man.
Ronan's blade plunged through its chest.
The forest went silent again. Still. Watching.
He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, eyes dimming back to mismatched human and wolf.
Then he looked up at the crimson moon peeking through the trees.
"…Not the worst night," he muttered, cleaning his blade with a torn scrap of cloth. "Could've used more screaming."
He turned away—but not before catching a scent on the wind.
Smoke. Horse sweat. Iron. People.
A caravan. Close.
His hand tightened on the sword's hilt.
Ronan Vale wasn't done hunting tonight. But he wasn't sure if he'd be the hero—or the threat.