Ronan stood over the corpse.
Blood soaked the earth around him—dark, steaming, and too much of it his own. The beast's body was a ruined mess of crushed limbs, torn muscle, and burned-out organs. Crimson lightning still crackled faintly from the gouges in its hide, like dying embers after a storm.
Ronan's claws dripped.
His breath came in low, ragged snarls. Half-shifted, half-broken. The fur on his arms was matted. The glowing marks across his chest dimmed slowly with each breath, fading with his adrenaline. His mouth—still fanged—tasted copper and ash.
He looked down at what he had done.
His hand trembled.
It's dead, he told himself. You won.
But the truth lingered behind his eyes: He'd lost control again. Just for a moment. But long enough.
He'd blacked out halfway through the fight. The rest was rage and instinct.
A crunch of boots on leaves snapped his focus back.
Ronan turned sharply, still crouched over the body, eyes flaring gold. A growl rumbled deep in his throat.
Figures emerged between the trees—torches raised, weapons drawn.
The patrol.
Brynn was in the lead, blade in hand, eyes scanning the carnage.
She stopped.
Her gaze locked with Ronan's—at his blood-slick claws, the beast at his feet, the glowing sigils still pulsing faintly across his bare chest.
Her voice cracked the silence.
"Gods…"
Another man behind her raised his crossbow instinctively. "What the hell is he?!"
Brynn didn't answer.
She stepped forward slowly, eyes wide. Her sword lowered—but didn't vanish.
Ronan didn't move.
His voice was rough when he finally spoke—low and hoarse.
"I told you I wasn't the monster."
He looked down at the corpse again, then back at her.
"But maybe I'm not far off."
Ronan took a slow step forward.
The patrol tensed.
His claws began to retract, muscles shrinking back into place. The fur receded, and the markings across his chest dimmed to faint crimson scars. His jaw cracked, shifting back to human shape. Steam rose from his skin as the last remnants of his Hybrid form burned off under the cold moonlight.
His breath was uneven, shallow.
"I'm done," he said quietly. "I'm not here to hurt anyone."
Brynn took another step forward, lowering her weapon. "He saved us. That thing—he killed it."
But not everyone was convinced.
Behind her, the patrol's mage raised a trembling hand, glowing with orange heat. "You saw what he looked like! That's not human!"
"Wait—!" Brynn started.
FWOOOM.
Too late.
The fireball surged through the air—no warning, no time.
Ronan's eyes went wide just before the impact.
BOOM.
It exploded against his chest, sending him flying backward. His body crashed through a tree and hit the dirt hard, flames rolling over his coat and smoke rising from his seared skin. He lay there in a twisted heap, coughing, smoke pouring from his mouth.
The mage's hands were still glowing, eyes wild. "I wasn't gonna let that thing get closer—he would've snapped again!"
"Damn it, Jarek!" Brynn spun, fury in her voice. "He was changing back! He wasn't attacking!"
Jarek didn't lower his hands. "He was bleeding. We should've finished him while he was down."
A silence fell.
Then a low, pained growl rose from the crater.
Smoke cleared.
Ronan was getting up.
Half-burned cloak falling off his shoulders. Chest scorched, one arm limp at his side. But his eye—the gold one—was glowing again.
He bared his teeth.
"You had your shot," he rasped. "You better pray I don't get back up."
Ronan staggered forward.
Each step scorched with pain—but he didn't stop.
His boots crushed embers underfoot. His left eye—icy blue—was dulled with exhaustion. But the right… the golden one blazed.
Jarek panicked.
"Stay down, damn you!"
FWOOM—FOOM—FOOM—FOOM—FOOM.
Five fireballs launched in rapid succession, screaming through the night air.
They struck Ronan head-on.
Explosions lit up the forest, hurling smoke and fire in every direction. Trees trembled. Brynn shielded her eyes from the flash.
Ash rained.
Smoke billowed thick and black.
No movement.
Then…
A glow.
Faint. Pulsing red through the haze.
And a shape emerged.
Ronan walked forward—slowly—alive.
His coat was nearly gone, hanging in burned scraps. His chest and arms were raw, skin melted down to muscle and sinew. But even as he moved, the torn muscle began to twitch. Tendons knit. Veins pulsed, filling with new blood. Layer by layer, the flesh reformed, crimson sparks crackling as skin regrew.
His healing wasn't fast. It was visceral—something primal. Every inch of him screamed survival. His body refused to die.
Brynn stared, horrified and awed. "Gods…"
Jarek backed up, terror in his eyes.
Ronan's voice was low—feral.
"I warned you."
His claws extended slowly, dripping with blood and lightning.
One second, Ronan was in front of them—smoke swirling, his skin still half-regrown.
The next… he was gone.
Jarek blinked.
And Ronan was behind him.
A low snarl rumbled from his throat. His breath ghosted hot across the mage's neck. The claws of his hybrid arm hovered inches from Jarek's spine, glowing faintly with red electricity. His muscles twitched, tense, barely leashed.
The patrol froze.
No one dared move.
Jarek whimpered, too terrified to cast again.
Ronan leaned in, eyes shining gold, voice a quiet growl:
"You don't get another shot."
His claws pricked skin—just enough to draw blood.
"Next time you raise your hand against me… pray I'm feeling merciful."
For a moment, it looked like he might rip the mage apart.
But then—
He stepped back.
With slow, deliberate movements, Ronan turned away, his body still healing, still steaming with residual heat. The air around him crackled faintly. He didn't look at the others. Not even Brynn.
He just muttered, more to himself than anyone else:
"I didn't come here to kill men. But don't think I won't."
And then he started walking—deeper into the woods, away from the torches, into the dark.
Later That Night...The forest faded behind him.
His legs carried him further than he remembered—past trees and shadow, through cold rivers and hollow silence. At some point, the adrenaline faded. His rage dulled. And the pain came.
He collapsed just outside a village.
He barely remembered the hands dragging him in, the gasps, the voices arguing over whether to help him or leave him in the street. Someone must've made the right call.
The Next MorningSunlight filtered through thin curtains, warm and golden. Dust danced in the beams above a small, creaky bed.
Ronan groaned.
His eyes opened slowly—both blue now. He blinked up at the wooden ceiling, heartbeat steady, breath calm. The scent of herbs and old pine drifted through the air.
His body ached.
But the wounds were gone.
He sat up slowly, shirtless, bandaged in places he didn't even remember being hit. A thick wool blanket was draped over him. His greatsword leaned against the wall in the corner—someone had cleaned the blood off it.
He looked around.
The room was small but warm. Stone hearth, single chair, table with a chipped bowl and half-eaten bread. Outside the window, the sounds of a waking village stirred—carts, birds, the soft chatter of morning trade.
Ronan leaned back against the headboard, exhaling sharply.
"Still breathing…" he muttered.
A knock came at the door.
Then a familiar voice—cautious, but not unkind.
"Mind if I come in?"
It was Brynn.