Turning and Denial

The moon hung heavy in the sky, it's cold light the only witness to the horror that had unfolded. When Rowan stirred, agony greeted him—a searing, unrelenting pain that tore through his body the moment consciousness returned. A ragged breath escaped his lips as his trembling fingers clawed at his shoulder, coming away slick with warmth. His uniform vest clung to him, soaked through with his own blood, its metallic scent thick in the air.

“Werewolves? Here?” The thought settled in his gut like a stone, “That creature had been at least a B-rank, maybe higher. Even a guild-licensed Runebearer would’ve struggled against it.”

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright. Every muscle screamed in protest, bones aching as though his body itself rejected the effort. The pain was unbearable—but something felt wrong.

This wasn’t just any wound.

He could feel it—something foreign, writhing beneath his skin. A sickness, deep and insidious, spreading with every heartbeat. The sensation was alien, a force creeping through his veins, curling around his bones like a serpent.

“Is this what it feels like to have mana?” he almost laughed at the thought.

“No.” His own voice was sharp, as if speaking the word aloud could make it true. “It can’t be.”

He knew lycanthropy was rare—so rare some dismissed it as a relic of the past, a myth wrapped in fear. A simple bite from some monster shouldn’t be enough to turn anyone. It was unheard of. The disease, the curse, only took root if the carrier had once been human. Most werewolves were dungeon-spawned abominations, beasts that had never known a mortal form. Others were ordinary wolves, twisted into something unnatural through magic or evolution.

But this wound?

It was different.

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A bitter laugh tore from his throat, sharp and ragged.

“Of course, it would be a husk,” he muttered. “Of course I’d be the one to catch a magic-born disease.”

The thought coiled around him, suffocating in its cruelty.

He staggered to his feet, forcing himself forward. Each step sent fresh waves of pain crashing through him. His vision blurred, darkened, the world tilting beneath him as though trying to slip from his grasp.

“I have to live.”

The thought burned through the haze, a surge of defiance bubbling in his chest. He shoved open the door to his cottage, breath hitching as he stumbled inside.

There were people who depended on him. Promises he had yet to keep.

Miss Juniper. His mother. The new adventurer he was supposed to mentor.

“I’ll have to clean this up before she gets here,” he murmured, voice hoarse. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, fingers twitching with phantom pain. “Best not scare her on her first day.”

He made his way to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets. Glass shattered—two bottles crashing to the floor before he even realized he’d knocked them over.

“Where is it?” he hissed, frustration curling his hands into fists.

Then, finally, he saw it.

A small vial of crimson liquid, hidden behind a canister of gifted salve.

Limping back toward the den, he uncorked the potion with his teeth. He knew better than to take a healing potion with broken bones—he’d warned countless adventurers about the risk. If the bones set incorrectly, they’d have to be rebroken and reset by a healer. The agony of that wasn’t worth it.

But given the choice between slow death and future pain? There was no contest.

He drained the vial in one swift motion. The liquid burned its way down his throat, and almost instantly, his body collapsed.

Before exhaustion fully claimed him, something ignited in his veins.

White-hot fire surged through him once more, spreading from his wounded shoulder, consuming him from the inside out. It wasn’t healing—it was fighting.

The potion and whatever dark magic now tainted his blood were at war.

If he’d had the strength, he would have screamed. Instead, the world dimmed, shadows closing in as his body surrendered to the twisted force clawing its way through his soul.