The next morning dawned bright—startlingly so. After weeks of rain, the clouds had finally torn apart, letting a hard blue sky pour down across the roofs of Graymill. The air was still damp, the ground still soft, but sunlight made even the puddles look golden. It felt, Toby thought, like a blessing. Or a warning.

  They rode out after breakfast, crossing the market square where a few brave merchants had already opened their stalls. People stopped to watch them pass: farmers, woodcutters, wives clutching baskets, and children with wide, toothy smiles pointing from behind their mothers’ skirts. Word had spread fast—knights from Highmarsh, sent to deal with the shadow in the forest. Hope clung to those faces like frost, fleeting in the sun.

  At the head rode Ser Maxwell, helm slung at his saddle, his cloak trailing behind like the shadow of a banner. Behind him, Toby, Zak, and Reece followed in close formation, the sound of their horses’ hooves muffled by the damp soil. Toby felt the elven sword bump softly against his back, the weight both comfort and reminder.

  They reached the northern edge of the forest by midmorning. The trees rose like a wall—thick trunks, wet moss, the smell of old leaves and wet bark. Sunlight speared down in uneven shafts, painting the forest floor with shifting shadows. Somewhere far off, a crow cawed, then fell silent. In the branches above, a few sparrows chased one another, chirping as if telling a story or a love song.

  Maxwell raised a hand, signaling to halt. “This is where we go on foot,” he said, swinging down from his saddle. “Keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. Forests hear better than men.”

  They dismounted in silence. Reece tied the horses loosely under a pair of oaks, making sure they could bolt if spooked. Toby adjusted the strap of his sword, feeling the smooth, foreign balance of elven steel. It still felt strange at his back—like wearing a promise he hadn’t earned yet.

  Maxwell took the lead, stepping lightly despite the weight of his armor. “We’ll move slow. Watch the ground for tracks, droppings, anything that breaks the pattern.”

  The forest swallowed them quickly. Within minutes, the sounds of Graymill were forgotten, replaced by the hiss of wind through branches and the faint drip of melting dew. The air smelled of soil and pine. Toby’s heartbeat began to match the rhythm of his steps.

  They found tracks before long—large, deep impressions in the damp loam. Maxwell crouched to examine them, his gloved hand hovering just above the earth.

  “Dog?” Zak asked quietly, leaning over his shoulder. “Big one?”

  Maxwell shook his head. “Too heavy for a dog. Too narrow for a bear. And the claws—” He pointed to the marks gouged deep into the mud. “—those aren’t curved like a cat’s. They’re straight. Like a wolf’s.”

  Zak frowned. “Didn’t you say Briarwolves don’t come this far south?”

  Maxwell gave him a sidelong look. “There’s more than one kind of wolf in the world. Keep your blade loose, Zak.”

  They followed the trail deeper into the trees. The tracks twisted between roots and underbrush, sometimes vanishing over rocky patches, then reappearing where the soil grew soft again. The deeper they went, the quieter the forest became. Birds stopped calling. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

  Reece shifted uneasily, glancing around. “Feels wrong,” he murmured. “Like we’re walking into something’s mouth.”

  Toby agreed but didn’t say so. He could feel it too—that unnatural stillness, the kind that came before violence. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, tracing the cool metal as if it might whisper what waited ahead.

  Then Maxwell raised a hand. “Den,” he said softly, nodding toward a cluster of stones ahead.

  It was a shallow cave, half-hidden by a curtain of roots and ivy. The entrance yawned dark and wide enough for a man to stoop through. A faint stink drifted out—something between wet dog, blood, and rot.

  They drew steel. Toby’s sword came free with a smooth whisper, lighter than any he’d trained with. The edge caught a glint of sunlight before the shadows swallowed it. Maxwell moved first, crouching low, his own blade ready. “Reece, Zak—rear guard. Toby, with me.”

  They entered. Inside, the light dimmed to a muddy amber glow filtering through cracks above. The ground sloped slightly down. Bones littered the floor—deer, rabbits, and something that might once have been human. Toby’s breath came slow and deliberate. His eyes adjusted, catching details: claw marks on the walls, old stains turned black with age. But what stopped him cold wasn’t the bones.

  It was the fire pit. A ring of stones sat near the back of the cave, blackened by soot. A few charred logs lay across it, half-burned, as though someone—or something—had tried to keep warm here. Beside it, a dented tin cup lay overturned, next to what looked like the remains of a leather boot.

  Maxwell’s brow furrowed. “That’s… wrong.”

  Zak whispered, “You think someone’s been living here?”

  Reece swallowed. “Or hiding.”

  Maxwell’s voice dropped low. “Either way, stay sharp.”

  He took one step forward and the growl came. It was deep, low, and wet, like thunder rolling under the ground. Toby turned sharply, sword rising. From the dark beyond the fire pit, something moved.

  At first it looked human. Then the light caught its eyes—red, gleaming, alive with something old and feral. The creature stepped into view: taller than any man, its body hunched and corded with muscle, fur the color of storm-gray iron, matted and slick. Its jaws dripped red. Its hands—no, claws—curled around the stones like knives. A werewolf.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved. Slow, sodden breathing rolled out from the creature. Then Maxwell barked: “Toby—left!”

  It lunged. Toby barely dodged, the creature’s claws raking across his shoulder as he rolled aside. The blow tore through mail and cloth alike—three deep cuts that flayed his skin. Pain burned white-hot. His vision flared. Behind him, Maxwell met the beast head-on, steel flashing as he struck low and fast. The strike was followed by a deafening howl that echoed through the cave.

  The creature staggered but didn’t fall. Its claws tore a chunk of stone from the wall, scattering shards across the floor. Toby scrambled up, gripping his sword in both hands. His heart thundered in his ears.

  Maxwell shouted, “Eyes, Toby! Go for the eyes!”

  Toby moved without thinking. The creature turned toward him, jaws opening wide. For an instant he saw its eyes—red, burning, inhuman, and something inside him twisted.

  Not a beast.

  An elf.

  That same color, that same hunger, that same mocking, ancient cruelty. The memory hit him like a blow—Brindle Hollow, his mother’s scream, firelight on steel. Anger surged through him, cold and sharp. The world tilted, slowed.

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  He could feel it again—the Art—that pulse of clarity beneath the fear. His breathing steadied. His vision narrowed. Every motion around him became precise, deliberate, slow enough to see.

  The werewolf lunged again, claws slashing, but Toby was already moving. He sidestepped, pivoted, and brought his sword up in a rising arc. The blade met flesh, and the sound was clean.

  The creature roared, stumbling back. Maxwell was there in an instant, his own strike flowing in perfect rhythm with Toby’s. His blade sank deep into the beast’s neck. A gout of dark blood sprayed across the stones. The werewolf shuddered once, fell to its knees, then collapsed, its body twitching as the life bled out of it.

  For a long moment, no one moved. Only the sound of Toby’s breathing filled the space—ragged, uneven, but human. He looked down at his arm, saw the blood soaking through his gambeson. It was his, not the creature’s. The wounds burned, but the pain was distant, unreal. His gambeson and mail were torn up revealing his shoulder.

  He huffed softly. Well, now I have a real reason to ask for a new one.

  Maxwell’s voice broke the silence. “You’re hit.”

  “I’m fine,” Toby lied. His sword trembled slightly in his grip.

  Zak and Reece hurried forward from the rear. Reece dropped to one knee beside Toby, rummaging through his pack. “Let me see.”

  “It’s nothing,” Toby started—but Reece’s glare cut him off.

  “Sit. Down.”

  Toby did, and Reece tore the sleeve open, inspecting the claw marks. “Shallow, but bloody,” he said finally. “Hold still.”

  He wrapped it tightly with linen, his fingers sure despite the tremor in them. Zak crouched beside the corpse, grimacing. “What in the hells is it, really? Looks half man, half wolf.”

  Maxwell wiped his sword clean on the creature’s ragged fur. “A werewolf,” he said simply. “Once a man, I’d wager. Maybe one of our missing woodcutters, Reeve Harn’s people.”

  Reece looked up sharply. “Cursed?”

  “Maybe. Maybe just bitten,” Maxwell said. “Either way, it’s done now.”

  Zak prodded the carcass with the tip of his boot. “Ugly way to go. Poor bastard.”

  Toby said nothing. He was still staring at the body—at the way the sunlight from a crack above caught the edge of his sword, reflecting faintly off the creature’s fur. The red in its eyes had already faded, leaving only dull brown. Human brown.

  His stomach turned. He wiped off the blood, then sheathed his sword. They dragged the carcass into the open, where sunlight met it. The fur was coarse and dark, glistening where blood had soaked through. The claws, the teeth—all still there. Nothing about it turned human again.

  Maxwell crouched, inspecting the body’s neck wound. “We’ll take the head,” he said at last. “Proof for the Reeve.”

  Zak grimaced. “You’re not serious.”

  “I am.” Maxwell’s tone left no room for debate. “Pass me a sack, Reece.”

  Reece tossed one over. “I was wondering why you’d packed those.”

  Maxwell's jaw tightened. “A man once,” he repeated quietly. “No longer.”

  The men stared in silence. Reece crossed himself instinctively. Zak took a half step back, his face tight.

  Toby found his voice. “It was human?”

  Maxwell nodded. “Once.”

  Zak looked between them. “You think there’ll be more?”

  “Probably,” Maxwell said. “Curses like this don’t die easy. Every few years, there’s another one.”

  Toby frowned. “Then the forest’s cursed? Why keep cutting it?”

  Maxwell’s mouth twitched. “Because people need wood more than they fear ghosts.” He glanced toward the den. “Keep your eyes open till we’re behind the walls again.”

  By the time they returned to Graymill, the sun had passed its peak, and the villagers had gathered again in the square, drawn by rumor and hope. Maxwell rode at the front, the sack tied to his saddle and dripping faintly onto the mud. The smell drew murmurs before anyone asked questions.

  The Reeve hurried forward, wiping his hands on his tunic. “Ser Maxwell—by the Light, is it done?”

  Maxwell swung down, dropped the sack at his feet, and untied the drawstring. The head rolled onto the mud with a wet thud—wolf-shaped, but its dull eyes still disturbingly human, staring at nothing. A gasp rippled through the crowd.

  “There’s your beast,” Maxwell said. “No more shadow in your woods.”

  The Reeve stepped back, hand to his mouth. “By the saints…” He looked up, eyes wet with shock and gratitude. “You’ve saved us. All of you.”

  Toby, still pale beneath the grime, managed a small nod. Reece hovered close, ready in case the blood loss caught up. Zak, for once, said nothing—just stared at the thing they’d killed, awe and unease tangled on his face.

  Maxwell rested a hand on Toby’s shoulder. “He’s the one who finished it. Fear didn’t stop him.”

  The Reeve bowed, awkward but sincere. “Then I’ll see this day remembered, Sers. Graymill owes you more than coin.”

  “Just see your men stay out of those woods a few days,” Maxwell said. “If there’s one curse, there may be another.”

  The Reeve’s shoulders stiffened before he nodded. “Aye, that’d be wise.” His voice was careful, as though he feared the words themselves might draw something closer.

  Maxwell turned toward his horse, tightening the reins. “We ride back. Highmarsh will want word.”

  As they mounted, the villagers began to murmur prayers. Some crossed themselves; others spat on the ground to ward off evil. The smell of fear and gratitude mixed in the air.

  Toby looked back once as they rode out. The sunlight caught the creature’s head where it lay in the mud, glinting faintly in the eyes before the shadow of the wall fell across it.

  He turned away, jaw tight. His shoulder throbbed where the claws had raked him, but he didn’t mind the pain. He was starting to get used to it.

  Zak rode beside him, breaking the silence with a low whistle. “Well,” he said, “that’s one for the songs, eh?”

  Reece muttered, “If anyone sings about it, they’d better leave out the smell.”

  Toby said nothing. He glanced at Maxwell up ahead, at the way the older knight rode steady and unbothered, and wondered if he’d ever reach that kind of calm—that mix of mastery and burden.

  He thought of the wolf’s red eyes. He thought of his own reflection in them.

  For the first time, he began to wonder what kind of man he would have to become to destroy all the monsters in his path—and whether that man would still be human when he was done.

  They reached the gate, horses clopping over the wet stone. Maxwell slowed, glancing back at the square—at the small, dark shape still lying where they’d left it.

  “Oh, right,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “Zak, grab the head.”

  Zak blinked. “What?”

  Maxwell pointed with his reins. “You heard me. Bag it up—Kay will want to see proof when we report. Knights need evidence of their victories.”

  Zak groaned audibly. “Why do I have to grab it?”

  “Because you’re the closest,” Maxwell said, deadpan.

  Reece tried—and failed—to smother a laugh. Toby just shook his head as Zak swung down with exaggerated misery, muttering curses under his breath. He wrapped the dripping trophy in a sack of canvas, gagging once for good measure.

  When he climbed back into the saddle, holding the sack at arm’s length, Maxwell gave a small approving nod.

  “There. Now you’ll have something to show off in Highmarsh. Knights must prove themselves often—and today you boys are closer to being men.”

  Zak stared at him, flat-eyed. “Closer, huh?” He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like I overshot the mark.”

  Maxwell’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “That’s why you’re only getting closer.”

  Reece’s laugh broke the silence, short and startled. Toby managed a faint one of his own. The laughter started small—Zak’s muttering, Reece’s snort, Toby’s reluctant grin—and followed them down the road as the gates of Graymill closed behind, bright against the long shadow of the woods they’d left smoldering in their wake.