A werewolf—me? No… wait. The original Dylan was no such creature. This must be the bite I received yesterday—the curse of the wolf, coursing now within me.

  So this is the taint… wolf’s venom.

  Glenn pieced together the fragments swiftly, lips curling into a bitter smile. Fortune or calamity, who could tell?

  His inherited memories made one truth stark: lycanthropes, vampires, demons—these abominations were despised across every kingdom, hunted without mercy by knightly orders, holy temples, and the arcane leagues. To bear such a curse was to walk forever at the edge of peril.

  Well… one step at a time. Perhaps it is not as dire as it seems. He forced calm into his mind and turned his gaze upon the beast cowering beneath his claws.

  Had another werewolf beheld this scene, disbelief would have seized them—for the cursed kin, once transformed, all but lost their reason, becoming thralls to slaughter. Even the most gifted lycanthrope could retain only a fragile thread of sanity after long and arduous training. Yet here Glenn stood, in his very first transformation, mind sharp as steel. A miracle, an aberration.

  But how could they know the torment of his soldier’s training—the brutal forging of will that had driven him to the brink of human endurance? The bloodlust gnawed ceaselessly at his reason, yet he endured.

  The beast had wholly yielded, crushed beneath a single hand, docile as a hound at its master’s feet.

  Glenn raised his claw, intent to end it, but hesitated. Not out of mercy, but calculation. Something in his blood whispered: this creature was his to command. Was it the gift of the lycanthrope’s bloodline—or some quirk of the beast itself?

  To slay it meant little gain. To tame it… he could use it as fodder, a shield of flesh. The decision came swiftly. He released it.

  At once, a bond coiled between them, allowing Glenn to shape his will into command.

  How strange… He meant to whisper in wonder, but only a guttural snarl rumbled forth.

  So… speech eludes me. He touched his throat, wrestled the venom back within his veins. His cords shifted, and at last a voice—demonic and rough—slipped out:

  “It works.”

  The beast pressed its body to the ground at his feet, trembling, awaiting orders.

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  Closing his eyes, Glenn delved into the sensations of his altered flesh. In this form, the venom surged, seeping through his veins, forcing change, flooding more and more of his body.

  In his human guise, the venom tainted perhaps a seventh of his blood. Transformed, it swelled to nearly a sixth. And he could feel it—his ability to bend the venom as he willed. He could purge it entirely, should he choose.

  “Do all werewolves wield this power… or is it mine alone?”

  If the venom could reshape the body thus, what might happen were he to let it flood every vessel? The thought stirred in him, reckless curiosity kindling.

  After long hesitation, he dared.

  With a silent command, the venom stirred, raging forth into every unopened channel.

  The beast at his feet shuddered violently, head burrowing into the soil in terror.

  Glenn’s frame expanded, muscles swelling, black vapors coiling thick about his fangs and claws. A storm of feral malice burst outward, yet he held the reins of sanity.

  His vision climbed higher and higher. Senses sharpened to impossible keenness—he felt he could follow the flutter of a mosquito a hundred paces away.

  At last, the venom spread to two-fifths of his blood, the utmost his will could endure. He towered six meters tall, a god of darkness cloaked in dread miasma. His breath seared with heat, each exhalation like the sigh of a demon descending to earth.

  A mere sweep of his fist shattered trees, the gale alone uprooting trunks.

  The hunger came swiftly. His body consumed itself, gnawed hollow from within. With effort, he drew the venom back, forcing his form to shrink.

  And when he stood once more as a man, he was naked, stomach growling.

  “Powerful, yes… but ruinous on clothing,” he muttered, lips twisting wryly at his bare state.

  “Fetch me food.” His guttural command sent the quivering beast bounding into the woods.

  Glenn flexed his body, astonished. Even returned to human guise, his frame bore the strength of his earlier wolf form. The trial had wrought permanent change. Such was the blessing—or curse—of lycanthropic flesh. A brief set of martial forms confirmed his suspicion.

  Seated naked upon a carpet of dead leaves, his ear caught a subtle rustle. Turning, he spied a one-eyed rat gnawing scraps of meat. Its stench was akin to the beast he had subdued.

  So… that hound was once such a vermin, twisted by the venom’s bite?

  …

  At that very moment, in Bayek Town, within a three-story brick manse in the square, a shadowed figure stirred upon a dust-cloaked bed. Its lashes quivered, nearly parting—then stilled, sinking once more into silence.

  …

  Hours later, the beast returned, a boar clamped in its jaws. Glenn, half-crazed with hunger, tore the carcass away and set a fire to roast the flesh.

  His body might endure raw meat, but his soul rebelled. He would not descend to savagery.

  Soon the fragrance of roasted pork curled through the forest. The beast drooled rivers at his side, nose twitching in ravenous delight, but dared not move. Among wolves, the alpha eats first. And Glenn had proven himself far more than alpha.

  One haunch was enough to sate him in human guise. Were he transformed, he could devour more—but to waste such energy was folly. Tossing the beast a single leg, he left the rest for it to claim—or to hunt anew.

  When it finished, he ordered it back to his dwelling to fetch him clothes, his intent conveyed as clearly as speech through the bond.

  The meat he stored at home; the garments he donned. Then Glenn set out once more toward the town, coin purse thin but not yet empty.

  With time, perhaps, he would even buy a cart. The thought lingered as he strode the road.