The streets were silent except for the crackling of fires eating through what remained of the royal quarter.
William moved through the shadows, careful not to draw attention to himself. His breath misted in the cold night air, shallow and uneven. The moon, faint and thin above, peered through the drifting smoke like a watchful eye.
Every step brought a new ache in his body - a dull pulse at first, then sharper, deeper. He pressed a hand to his side, feeling the heat beneath his skin. It wasn't pain from his wound anymore. It was the other thing.
The beast stirred.
He could feel its claws inside him, scratching at his ribs, its heartbeat pounding alongside his own. It whispered behind his eyes - a growl that was both hunger and promise.
Not here, he told himself again. Not in this place.
He ducked into a narrow alley, away from the flames. The walls leaned close, charred and wet with soot. His reflection flickered in a puddle at his feet - eyes faintly gold now, veins dark against his skin.
He tore the ceremonial jacket open, gasping for air. His hands were trembling - not from fear, but from the strength building beneath his skin, threatening to tear free.
"Not again," he hissed.
But the past came for him anyway.
It was always the same memory - the one he could never outrun.
He was fifteen again, standing in the moonlit courtyard of the Ludian palace, his father's voice echoing around him.
"You must learn control," King Alden said. His tone was firm, but beneath it lived a fear William had never seen before.
"I didn't mean to change," young William protested. His breath came fast, panicked. His hands were bloodied from the training yard; the moonlight caught on his fingers and turned them into claws.
Alden approached slowly, his cloak trailing across the white stones. "You can't let anger feed it," he said. "The beast listens to rage. Starve it."
William had tried. He remembered that night too clearly - the cold wind, the trembling, the sound of his bones shifting beneath his skin as the first transformation took hold.
He remembered the horror on his mother's face.
He remembered his father's sword drawn, its edge shining with runes meant to bind creatures of darkness.
But he also remembered the moment his father dropped the blade and knelt, instead of striking. "You are not your curse," Alden had said, voice breaking. "You are my son. Remember that, always."
The memory shattered like glass.
William dropped to his knees in the alley, gasping. The tremors worsened. His fingers curled into the stones, nails blackening, lengthening.
The beast's voice filled his head - a deep, primal rhythm like a drumbeat. Blood. Air. Run.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron. "You will not have me," he growled aloud.
But control was slipping, his heartbeat pounding faster than thought.
The sound of boots echoed nearby - Petrid's patrols, their steps synchronized, their movements wrong. The scent reached him before the sight - sweat, steel, the faint rot of enchantment.
He looked up just as three shadowed figures rounded the corner.
"Prince William!" one barked. Their eyes were hollow - the same dead glaze he'd seen in the chapel. "By order of Lord Petrid, surrender yourself-"
They didn't finish.
The growl that came from William wasn't human.
It rumbled through the alley, low and thunderous, shaking the air itself. The guards froze.
William stood, the moonlight sliding across his face - half-shadow, half-gold. His canines lengthened, the tendons in his neck tightening like bowstrings.
"Run," he said.
The first guard stepped forward, sword raised.
The beast broke loose.
The world blurred - movement faster than thought. Claws flashed, metal screamed, and the alley filled with the wet crack of steel meeting flesh. One heartbeat, two - and silence.
When it was over, William stood alone amid the fallen, chest heaving. The blade he'd taken from the chapel dripped crimson. His hands shook violently, still caught between man and monster - claws half-formed, skin shivering where fur had almost broken through.
He stared at what he'd done. "No," he whispered. "No more."
He fell to his knees again, breathing raggedly. The beast receded - not defeated, only waiting. Always waiting.
The fires burned brighter at the edge of the city. Somewhere beyond them, beyond all this ruin, Elyon was alive. He had to believe that.
William forced himself to his feet, eyes narrowing toward the forest on the horizon - the only place Petrid's men dared not go.
"The Darkwood," he murmured.
The wind carried a faint scent - faint but unmistakable: lavender and frost.
Elyon.
The beast stirred once more, but this time it wasn't hunger that moved it. It was recognition.
And without another word, William set off into the night.