Ronan stood in the middle of a forest swallowed by shadow—trees stretching into a blood-red sky, their branches like skeletal claws. The air was thick, choking. The moon overhead was wrong. Too large. Too close. Crimson, pulsing like a wound in the heavens.
Then came the sound.
Low. Rumbling. A growl that seemed to rattle his bones from the inside out.
He turned. Slowly.
And saw it.
A towering figure emerged from the mist—fur like matted ink, eyes burning like molten coals. Its claws scraped the earth, leaving trails of rot in its wake.
The original beast.
The one who had bitten his mother.
The one who had infected his bloodline.
The one that haunted every inch of his rage and power.
It grinned.
"You wear my curse like a badge," it rasped, voice like cracked stone. "But you're no hunter, boy. Just a broken pup gnawing at a leash."
Ronan stepped back. His blade wasn't in his hand. He reached for it instinctively—nothing.
The beast stepped forward. "You think you're mastering me. But I am in your bones. Your blood. Your birth."
It lunged.
Fangs flashing.
Ronan barely dodged, tumbling to the side. His heartbeat thundered. He scrambled up, but the forest twisted around him, trees shifting, closing in.
The beast stood over him again, grinning wider now.
"Every time you lose control… it's me you become."
Then it lunged again—
And everything went black.
Ronan jolted upright, a strangled breath caught in his throat.
Sweat clung to his skin. His chest rose and fell in short, uneven bursts. The fire had died to faint embers, and the room was cast in shadows—long, uncertain shapes that reminded him too much of what he'd just seen.
The crimson moon still echoed behind his eyes.
He looked down. Brynn lay beside him, peaceful, unaware. Her presence should have calmed him. But all he felt was the weight.
Of the curse.
Of the blood.
Of the beast.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, quietly reaching for his shirt and gear. One piece at a time, he suited up—sword, gauntlet, cloak. Movements fluid, practiced. Almost ritualistic.
No goodbyes.
No noise.
He opened the door and stepped into the cool night air, the scent of dew and ash settling in his lungs. The moon above was full—but pale now, distant. He stared at it for a moment too long before pulling up his hood.
Then he vanished into the dark.
Away from the fire.
Away from Brynn.
Away from the part of him that still wanted to be human.
Six Months Later
The tavern was loud, but Ronan barely heard it.
Laughter. Slurred shouting. The clatter of mugs. Music from a lute player by the hearth. All of it blurred together, distant beneath the storm in his mind.
He sat alone at a table in the far corner, hood down, hair longer now—more wild. The silver streaks at his temples had deepened, and his once-icy blue eye now flickered gold even at rest.
His hand rested on a half-finished mug of bitter ale, untouched for the past ten minutes.
Six months. Six months of hunting. Searching. Following trails that turned to ash.
Every clue, every whisper, every terrified tale in the countryside—he followed them all. Each one led him deeper into forgotten places, into the ruins of old temples, into cursed woods that whispered his name.
All chasing that beast.
The one that haunted his dreams.
The one that damned his blood.
And still… nothing.
The barmaid passed his table without even a glance. His presence gave people a reason to look away. The armor of scars, the haunted stare—it was easier to pretend he wasn't there.
He liked it that way.
Until the door creaked open behind him.
A sudden breeze. A new scent.
Ash. Damp leather. And something wrong just beneath it—rotted, twisted. Familiar.
Ronan didn't turn his head. But his grip on the mug tightened, knuckles whitening.
Something had just walked in.
And whatever it was… it wasn't human.
Ronan looked up, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his hood.
It was him.
The same young man who had tried to kill him in his sleep six months ago. Same wiry frame. Same scar just under the left eye where Ronan had split his cheek with a punch before it all went to hell that night.
But something was different.
The scent hit him first—beneath the layers of travel, sweat, and tavern musk was a stench of rot. Dried blood. Undeath.
Vampire.
Not full-blooded, no. This wasn't some pure-born predator of the night. This was something worse. Turned… twisted… fed.
The young man's skin was pale, eyes sunken and rimmed in dark veins. His smile wasn't his own—it was something borrowed from a corpse. And when he met Ronan's gaze, he smirked.
"Didn't think I'd find you this easy," the man said, voice like gravel soaked in wine. "Been looking for you, mutt."
Ronan didn't stand. Not yet. But his fingers uncoiled from the mug and hovered near the hilt of his greatsword, leaned just beside the table.
"You should've stayed dead," Ronan said quietly.
The man chuckled. "I tried that. Didn't take. Turns out, you left me just broken enough to be found by something... hungry."
He stepped closer. Patrons were already shifting uncomfortably, sensing something was wrong. One woman stood up to leave, sensing the crackle of violence in the air.
Ronan rose slowly, his shadow stretching across the floor as he loomed over the table.
"I don't know who turned you," he growled. "But if you came here thinking I'm still the same as six months ago…"
His gold eye burned brighter.
"…you've made the same mistake twice."
Ronan's nostrils flared.
He caught it—faint, but undeniable. Ten… maybe more.
The sickly-sweet scent of rotting blood. Old death. Vampiric musk laced with cold iron and damp earth. It clung to the edges of the wind seeping through the tavern's windows and doors.
They were here.
Not just the one standing in front of him, but a pack. Waiting. Watching. Surrounding the place like wolves at the edge of firelight.
His jaw tightened.
This wasn't a confrontation.
It was an ambush.
"You brought friends," Ronan muttered.
The young vampire's grin widened unnaturally. "We've all been dying to meet you. The half-blood hunter who walks like a man but smells like meat."
The tavern patrons were growing tense, some rising from their seats, others backing toward the door. A few sensed the danger, but most were just reacting to the weight in the room—an instinctive, primal fear.
Ronan's hand slid to his sword.
"If they're outside," he said coldly, "then you picked the worst place to corner me."
"Why?" the vampire sneered.
Ronan's voice dropped to a growl. "Because now… there's no one left to hold me back."
And then—everything snapped.
The vampire didn't get to smirk again.
Because in the span of a single breath, everything changed.
Ronan's body convulsed, muscles surging with sudden violence. His veins glowed faint crimson beneath his skin as his blood rite surged. A low, guttural snarl erupted from deep in his chest—and then the scream of tearing leather and cracking bone echoed through the tavern.
He was changing.
But not like before.
This wasn't the half-measured transformation from months ago. This was something far more savage. More refined. More true.
Fur burst from his arms, thicker and darker than before. His jaw extended, fangs gleaming beneath flickering firelight. Clawed hands flexed as his shoulders broadened, his spine lengthening with a crunch of bone. Crimson runes flared across his chest and arms, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
And his eyes—
One a burning gold, the other glowing with blood-red lightning.
The vampire stumbled back, confidence suddenly gone. "W-what are you—"
"Evolution," Ronan snarled, voice layered with growling echoes. "You should've stayed underground."
With a bestial roar, he lunged forward, claws tearing through the vampire's guard like parchment. Wood splintered. Tables exploded. Screams erupted as the fight shattered the calm of the tavern in an instant.
And outside, in the dark…
Ten vampires hissed and drew their blades.
Because their trap just failed.
And the monster they came to kill had already turned into something worse.
Ronan burst through the tavern wall in an explosion of wood and stone, dragging the torn remains of the first vampire with him. The body hit the cobblestone street with a wet smack, limbs twisted unnaturally, its head nearly torn from its shoulders.
The night air was cold.
The scent of death was hot.
And all around him, the remaining ten vampires descended.
They came fast—blades drawn, shadows flitting like ghosts. But Ronan was faster.
The first struck from the left—dagger aimed for his ribs.
Ronan caught his wrist mid-swing and crushed it in one hand. Bone snapped. The vampire screamed—until Ronan grabbed him by the throat and ripped out his larynx with a clawed fist.
Blood sprayed across the street like dark rain.
Another leapt from behind, fangs bared, aiming for his neck. Ronan twisted midair, catching the leech by the waist and slamming him into the ground so hard the stone cracked. Before it could move again, he drove his claws into its chest and tore the heart free.
It twitched once—then stilled.
Three more surrounded him, moving as one, blades flashing in perfect coordination. Ronan didn't dodge. He charged.
Their weapons cut across his arms and chest—deep gouges that hissed with silver and fire—but his momentum didn't stop. His claws swept wide, carving through one of their necks in a crimson arc while the other took a full punch to the jaw that shattered it into pieces.
The third tried to retreat.
Ronan pounced.
They slammed into the side of a cart, the vampire screeching as Ronan bit down—fangs ripping into its shoulder, tearing flesh and sinew. It howled, thrashing in agony until Ronan slammed its head against the cart's iron rim. Once. Twice. Three times. Until the head gave way and the blood poured freely.
Now five were dead.
The others hesitated.
Their perfect ambush had turned into a massacre.
Ronan stood in the center of the cobbled street, lit by torchlight, body steaming in the cold air. His chest rose and fell with slow, monstrous breaths. Blood soaked his fur, dripped from his claws, and stained the ground at his feet.
He didn't speak.
He only growled.
Low. Deep. Final.
One of the vampires turned to flee.
Big mistake.
Ronan moved like a flash of red lightning—his claws catching the runner by the back and tearing straight down the spine, splitting the creature in half like a rotten log.
The rest had no choice now.
They attacked.
The street became a blur of shadows, steel, screams, and blood. Ronan spun, struck, bled, and howled. For every wound they landed, he gave back tenfold. He fought like a hurricane of muscle and rage—a beast born under a crimson moon.
And when the final vampire fell, headless and twitching, Ronan stood tall among the corpses, his breath heavy.
His body was riddled with cuts. His shoulder bled freely. One of his arms barely moved.
But he was alive.
And they were not.
Ronan stood in the center of the blood-soaked street, his breathing slowing. The last of his fury ebbed as his claws retracted, fur sinking beneath torn skin. His bones cracked and shifted with a sickening rhythm as his hybrid form unraveled.
Flesh knitted itself back together. Muscle regrew. Slashes closed, leaving only streaks of red before they vanished into pale, scarred skin.
He was human again.
More or less.
His shirt hung in tatters. Blood—some of his, most not—drenched his torso and face. His golden eye flickered, then dimmed back to ice blue. For a long moment, he just stood there, surrounded by silence and corpses.
Then he heard it.
A slow, deliberate pair of footsteps crunching across gravel and bone.
He turned.
An old man walked forward from the edge of the alley, wrapped in dark wolf-hide robes, face shadowed by a heavy hood. His eyes were pale—not human. There was something in them that shimmered like moonlight on wet stone.
He said nothing at first. Just stared at Ronan.
Then, in a guttural, ancient tongue—one Ronan had only ever heard whispered in the oldest Blood Hunter texts—the man spoke:
"Var'morduun."
Ronan's blood went cold.
He knew the word. Barely.
Old werewolf dialect. Dead language. It meant:
"The Death That Hunts Death."
The man took a step closer. "Your blood remembers," he said, this time in the common tongue. "Your body evolves. But your soul... that bears the curse of kings long buried."
Ronan narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The man smiled—but there was no warmth in it.
"I am the beginning of your answers… and the end of your ignorance."
He extended a clawed finger toward the massacre behind Ronan.
"You've only just begun to wake up, Var'morduun."
And then, as quickly as he had come, the man turned and walked into the fog.
Gone.
Leaving only a name…
And a chill that refused to fade.
Ronan sprinted into the mist-shrouded alley, boots pounding against wet cobblestone. He rounded one corner, then another—nothing. Not even a shadow. The old man was gone, as if the night itself had swallowed him whole.
"Damn it," Ronan muttered, his claws still half-formed, twitching with the last of his adrenaline. He sniffed the air—no scent trail. No heartbeat. Just blood, smoke, and fading echoes.
He stood there a while, watching the still-dark streets, until the cold finally started to seep into his bones. Whatever that man was… he wasn't normal.
By the time Ronan found a decent inn, he was streaked with drying blood and bruises bloomed across his ribs. The innkeeper didn't ask questions—one look at his eyes, and they handed him a key and a towel.
The room was small. Quiet. Safe.
Ronan stripped off what remained of his shredded armor and stepped into the washbasin, scrubbing the blood from his skin with shaking hands. As crimson swirled down the drain, he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin.
Half-man. Half-monster.
And now… something more?
"Var'morduun…" he whispered.
Whatever that name meant, it wasn't just a title.
It was a warning.
And tomorrow, he'd start finding out why.