The night was still, save for howling wind that cut through dense woods. Its cold fingers reached out to touch the treetops, bending them without mercy in an unnatural tarantella. The full moon cast a bright, coldly shimmering pallor across the world; through forests it turned into endless expanses of shadow and light. Under the cloak of the night, the little village in the edge of the woods sat silent. Far across its hills, the cry of a lone wolf, ringing in the silence, was a reminder of that wild, untamed force beyond the shelter and security of human civilization.
In this idyllic village, a boy sat alone in his room, staring out a small, rain-streaked window. His name was Dorian, and though he was only fifteen, there was something unnervingly present in the way he carried himself. There was a presence that had dogged him since he could remember. The villagers whispered about him behind closed doors; when they thought he wasn't looking, their eyes would linger on him just a fraction of a second too long. A spell of bad omen, they whispered-a lineage of blood flowing through his veins, one different from all the rest.
Dorian had always been warned to avoid the woods, but it wasn't because a pack of wolves was said to roam them or even because some claimed dark magic clung to the trees like some sort of thick fog. No, the reason was much darker. His parents, good-intentioned but afraid, had raised him always with the echo of an old family secret-a secret running deep in his bloodline. It wasn't some story concocted to scare children but was real as life and had been passed down generations.
And Dorian sat there, the weight of that secret upon him. The mark, a small, crescent-shaped scar, had appeared on his wrist when he was just a child. No one could explain it. At first, it seemed like a mere birthmark, nothing to worry about. But as he grew older, the mark began to change. It darkened, its edges becoming more defined, almost as though it were alive. And it is now, when the dim light of his room casts an almost macabre glow upon it, that he can feel something ancient stirring inside him, inexorably.
The transformation was already well underway by the first night of the full moon. The air seemed to crackle with energy about him; the room felt too warm. Beads of sweat gathered upon his brow, and he clutched at the edge of the bed to try to steady his breathing. His heart was racing; each beat thundered loudly in his ears, while the mark burned.
Pain seared through his body, sharp and relentless. Skin stretched, bones aching as they shifted beneath the surface. Muscles pulled taut, and his eyes stung as they began to change, turning a vibrant shade of gold that gleamed in the dark. The moonlight through the window seemed to pull at him, a magnetic force that tugged at his very soul.
A low, guttural growl escaped Dorian's lips, the sound foreign to him, something that was deep inside him waking up. His hands, now fisted, started lengthening, his nails into claws. His breathing quickened, each intake shallow as he fought the pain. But it was no use. The curse was inevitable. It had always been a part of him.
He could feel the beast inside him clawing at its surface for release. It was a mark that held him imprisoned yet was one promising his destiny. The transformation was not physical in nature; from within, it was of a stratum linked with one's self. The curse was rising, and along with it that compulsion to run, to hunt, to be deep in the wilds and running with wolves that howled in the forests.
Yet Dorian couldn't outrun it. Not this time.
Unsteadily, he struggled to his feet, unbalanced legs trying to take his weight through his change. The air seemed to vibrate with energy as he fought for mastery of himself, his senses running riot to the point of pain. The world outside seemed much sharper, more vivid than before, as if all the sounds, every movement was magnified. His nostrils flared with an intake of breath as he inhaled the scent of the forest on the breeze dancing gently through the cracked open window. The wild called.
He longed for the wolf's freedom in his veins, embracing its power. The moon was his master, and this was the curse that was cast upon him, making him one of its chosen-reminding him of how strong he could be.
But there was one thing that held him back.
A voice, echoing deep within his mind, reminded him of what he stood to lose: a family, home, and most of all, his being human.
The mark on his wrist burned hotter, as if it could feel his inner turmoil. He looked down at it, the crescent-shaped scar glowing faintly in the moonlight. It seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a rhythmic thrum that resonated in his bones. This was not just a mark. It was a symbol of something greater, something older than time itself. And it was both his burden and his gift.
All of his life, he knew things were going to be different, but tonight, this premonition was turning into reality. The mark had always been there, a quiet reminder of what he was, but tonight, it stopped being just a symbol and was him-a part of his soul-and its call was finally going to be heard.
Dorian turned away from the window with a growl of frustration, his eyes flickering with the gold light that now burned within them. The urge to transform was beyond his control. The beast had him in its grip, and there was nothing left to stand in its way. He could only surrender now.
The change raged through him like a tidal wave, engulfing him with raw, untamed power. His mind reeled, but the pain was gone in an instant, only to be replaced by the sense of freedom he had never experienced before. His body felt lighter, faster, and stronger. The world around him seemed to slow as he let the beast within him take over.
In but a flash, Dorian was no longer a boy. He was the wolf.
With a howl that echoed through the night, he threw himself from the window, his body falling with a thud to the ground. He felt the earth beneath his paws, the cold wind in his fur. The night was his to command, and the forest called to him-a dark embrace welcome after the life he had known.
And as he ran through the woods, the mark on his wrist seemed to sear brighter, as though guiding him, leading him toward something. But Dorian did not care. The wolf within him was free, and that was all that mattered.
For now.