Jon awoke to the taste of blood on his lips and the acrid stench of death filling his nostrils. His body ached with a deep, gnawing pain, and the ground beneath him felt cold, wet, and disturbingly sticky. He blinked, his vision hazy, the world around him spinning in a disorienting blur.
As his senses slowly returned, he realized the dampness wasn't just from the forest floor. His hands, his arms—everything—was drenched in blood. Thick, dark, congealed blood that clung to him like a second skin.
He tried to sit up but winced, a sharp pain flaring across his chest and ribs. His armor was torn, shredded in several places, and through the gaps, he could see his own skin—pale, bruised, and slashed. The wounds the beast had left him were still there, but now they seemed worse, deeper. The once clean gashes were jagged and crusted with dried blood, as though they had been reopened, torn further apart.
He exhaled sharply, the breath rattling in his chest.
"Jon?" Isolde's voice was a tremor of disbelief, the fear in her tone unmistakable.
Jon turned his head slowly, finding Isolde floating above him, her ethereal form wavering, her eyes wide with shock. Her usual composed demeanor had shattered, replaced by an expression of raw horror. Her gaze wasn't on his wounds, though. It was on the ground around him, the beast's remains strewn about like discarded meat.
The creature that had nearly killed him—what was left of it—was unrecognizable. Its body had been ripped apart, limbs twisted and flung about. The once-ferocious beast was now a torn carcass, its fur soaked in its own blood. Its head lay several feet away, the eyes wide, the face frozen in a grotesque snarl.
Jon looked down at himself again, his breath catching in his throat. His hands were coated in the same thick blood. His fingernails—were they sharper? Darker? He swallowed, his mouth dry, an unsettling chill creeping down his spine.
"What... happened?" His voice was a hoarse whisper, more to himself than to Isolde. He didn't remember the final moments of the fight—just darkness and pain. Then nothing.
Isolde, still hovering in shocked silence, finally spoke, her voice strained. "Jon... you..." She paused, struggling for words, her gaze flickering to his bloodied hands, to the remains of the beast, and back to his eyes. "I don't know how you survived. It—it doesn't make sense."
Jon tried to stand, using his sword as a makeshift crutch to haul himself upright. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he managed to get to his feet. His legs wobbled, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse again. But he didn't. There was a strange energy thrumming beneath his pain, something deep, primal—familiar.
He pressed his palm against his chest, over his heart, where the most vicious of his wounds lay. His fingers brushed over the gashes, and beneath them, something pulsed. It wasn't just the blood... it was something else. Something darker.
Jon shook his head, trying to clear the fog that clouded his thoughts. His vision still blurred at the edges, and his body felt heavier, as though a weight was pulling him down. Yet, despite the pain, despite the confusion, there was something lurking just beneath the surface—a simmering heat, a burning anger that he couldn't explain.
Isolde hovered closer, her voice soft but edged with fear. "Jon... the beast. Its blood. It's everywhere, on you. But you... you don't seem..." She trailed off, biting her lip. "You should be dead. I felt the life drain from you. I... I don't understand."
Jon said nothing, his brow furrowing as he wiped his hand across his face, smearing the blood further. The memories of the fight were still a blur, flashes of claws and fangs, his sword cutting into fur, the beast's snarls filling his ears. But the last thing he remembered was falling—being struck down.
His heart pounded in his chest, the beat irregular, too fast. It felt like something was wrong. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his body still trembling, but... there was strength there, too. A strength that felt alien, unnatural.
"I don't feel... right," he muttered, not quite able to articulate the strange sense of disconnection from his own body.
Isolde's gaze hardened, her voice low. "You were unconscious. Your wounds—Jon, they were fatal. But now..." She floated back slightly, her ethereal form flickering. "Something happened while you were out. Something changed."
Jon's grip tightened on his sword, and he felt a tremor in his hand—one that wasn't from fear. There was something dark, something violent pulsing through him, just below the surface. He felt it clawing at him from within, like a caged beast.
But he didn't let it out.
Not yet.
He wiped more of the blood from his face, the sticky residue clinging to his skin, and he looked at Isolde, trying to mask his confusion. "We should keep moving," he said, his voice rough but steady. "The village is close. We'll figure this out there."
Isolde hesitated, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to see into his very soul. She opened her mouth as if to argue, but then she closed it, nodding slowly. "Fine. But we're not done talking about this, Jon. Not by a long shot."
He didn't respond, merely grunted and began walking, his steps heavy but purposeful. The forest remained eerily quiet, the mist clinging to the trees like a shroud, but the silence no longer bothered him. He felt... in control, despite the gnawing unease that had settled deep in his gut.
The hours passed slowly as they made their way through the thick woods, Jon's body pushing forward on sheer willpower. The pain from his wounds had dulled to a throbbing ache, and though his mind tried to make sense of what had happened, the forest's oppressive gloom offered no answers.
But with every step, the village drew nearer. He could feel it.
And so did something else.
As the trees thinned and the dark shapes of thatched rooftops appeared on the horizon, Jon felt a sudden weight settle in his chest. The village of Havenbeck was ahead—he could see the smoke curling from chimneys in the twilight.
But something was wrong.
A strange, metallic taste lingered on his tongue, and his pulse quickened. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword instinctively. He didn't know why, but the village wasn't the sanctuary it once promised to be. Not anymore.
Jon's gaze drifted to the horizon, his body tense, every fiber alert.
"Jon?" Isolde's voice was cautious now, her unease matching his own.
But Jon said nothing as they stepped into the village's outskirts, his breath cold against the air, his senses tingling with dread.
Something was coming. He could feel it.
To be continued...