The tracks led me to a small hollow ringed by brambles and ancient stones. I paused at the edge, heart pounding hard enough to rattle my teeth. At the center of the clearing, Moab was on his knees, doubled over, his hands clawed into the ground. His shirt was torn, the muscles of his back moving in ripples under the skin. Every breath came out as a snarl, low and broken.
His head snapped up as I stepped closer, and the eyes that met mine were not human. They glowed, not with reflected light, but from within, amber and wild and rimmed in black. His mouth twisted in a grimace, teeth longer than before, white as fresh-cut bone.
“Don’t,” he said, or tried to. The word came out in a growl, thick and wet, and the effort of it made him shudder.
I stopped, but only for a second. “I’m not here to hurt you,” I said. The words sounded ridiculous, but they were true.
He braced himself on all fours, nails—no, claws now—digging furrows in the dirt. His body jerked, hips bucking, as if every part of him was fighting against itself. There was blood on his hands, and on the snow beneath him. The fur at the edge of my cloak prickled as I watched.
I remembered, then, the stories. The old wives’ tales, the warnings whispered in the kitchens after dark. Girls who went walking in the woods at night, never to return. Men who woke up in strange places, with no memory of what they’d done, blood under their nails and voices in their heads. I had always thought them nonsense, meant to scare children, but now—
“Moab,” I said, as soft as I could. “It’s me.”
He shook his head, once, violently. “You have to go,” he managed, voice strangled. “I can’t—”
“Don’t be stupid,” I said, louder. I stepped into the clearing, ignoring the pounding of my heart. “If you were going to hurt me, you would have done it already.”
He laughed, or tried to. The sound was wrong, too high and thin. “You don’t know—”
“I know enough.” I came closer, so close I could smell the animal reek of him, sharp and feral and nothing like the sweat or blood of men.
He lunged, not at me but at the ground beside my feet, raking the snow as if he meant to tunnel into the earth. His whole body convulsed, and for a moment I thought he would tear himself in half.
I crouched, cloak trailing in the frost, and reached for his shoulder. My hand hovered, uncertain. “If you want me to stop, say it now,” I said.
He went still, every muscle locked, as if holding his breath could keep the beast at bay.
I touched him. The heat of his skin was shocking, a furnace burning through the thin rag of his shirt. His shoulder trembled under my palm, but he didn’t pull away.
“You’re not alone,” I said. “Whatever this is, you’re not alone.”
He turned his face toward me, the bones shifting under the skin, his mouth a snarl and a plea all at once.
I remembered, then, what it was to be hunted. I remembered the hands that had tried to claim me, to crush me into something obedient and small. I remembered the way it felt to run, knowing there was no safe place, that even the woods themselves might turn against you.
So I held on. I dug my fingers into his shoulder, anchoring him to the world. I whispered the first words that came to mind—nonsense words, the old prayers from childhood, the fragments of poetry I’d once read in secret. I told him he was strong, that he could fight it, that I believed in him, though I wasn’t sure I did.
He shook and howled, the sound raw and terrible, but I didn’t let go.
After a time, the tremors slowed. His breath came easier, the claws receded, the eyes dulled to a more human gold.
He slumped forward, head hanging. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t be. I’ve seen worse. Probably.”
He looked at me, uncertain. “You should have run.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered,” I said. “You’d just chase me.”
He managed a crooked smile, teeth still sharp. “Probably.”
We sat there in the snow, two broken things, until the cold forced us to move.
He was the first to speak, voice low. “You want to know what I am?”
I nodded, unsure if I did.
He stared into the trees, eyes distant. “I wasn’t born this way. Not exactly. There was an accident—a crash. I died. Or I should have. But when I woke up, I was in the woods. This curse, or whatever you want to call it, came with me.” He flexed his hand, watching the nails lengthen and shorten, as if showing off a parlor trick. “I kept it secret. Only my brothers know.”
