Page 2 of Betraying the Beast

Ceryn froze, her hand moving to the knife at her hip.

Behind her, something exhaled—a deep, rumbling breath that sent chills racing down her spine.

Perhaps Maeva’s dreams were more than just dreams after all.

Ceryn spun around, knife drawn, her heart hammering against her ribs.

There, between two ancient oaks, stood a shadow darker than the forest itself. Massive. Unmoving. Watching.

He stepped out of the shadows like a creature born of nightmare—huge and silent, his presence swallowing the space between them. Ceryn froze, every instinct screaming as her eyes locked on his. They glowed faintly in the gloom, golden and slitted like a predator’s, fixed on her with an unnatural stillness. His face was partially obscured by a wild tangle of golden hair, but what she could see was wrong—inhuman. His features were too sharp, his brow too heavy, and his mouth... too wide. When he bared his teeth, it wasn’t a snarl—it was a warning. Fangs glinted in the dim light, far too long, far too real.

His body loomed, tall and broad, cloaked in coarse fur the color of golden sunlight but he was a creature of nightmares, not the day. Muscle rippled beneath it as he moved, powerful and purposeful, like a beast who had once walked on four legs and never fully adapted to two. His hands were monstrous—oversized, clawed, twitching with restrained violence. A tattered cloak clung to his shoulders, shredded with time and weather, and the scent of him hit her then: wild earth, damp leaves, and the faint copper tang of blood.

Ceryn’s body screamed at her to run, but terror rooted her in place. Seven years she’d hunted these woods, caught glimpses of strange tracks, heard distant howls. But never this. Never him.

The beast’s chest expanded as it drew in a deep breath, seeming to taste her scent on the air. Then it threw back its head and roared—a sound that shook the very trees, that reached deep into Ceryn’s chest and squeezed her lungs until they burned..

The spell broke. She ran.

Branches whipped at her face as she tore through the forest, leaping over fallen logs and crashing through undergrowth with none of her usual stealth. The bow bounced painfully against her back, her satchel slapped against her hip, but she dared not slow. Behind her, she could hear it—the heavy thud of massive paws, the snap of branches beneath its weight, coming closer, closer.

Her foot caught on an exposed root, sending her sprawling. Pain shot through her knee as she scrambled back up, gasping for breath. Her cloak had caught on something—a branch, a thorn—and she clawed at the fastening at her throat, desperate to free herself.

The clasp gave way. The cloak tore from her shoulders just as she launched forward again, leaving the garment behind like shed skin.

Only when the trees began to thin, when the first glimpse of village rooftops appeared in the distance, did Ceryn dare to look back.

The beast stood at the forest’s edge, a massive dark figure partially obscured by mist and shadow. In one clawed hand—too human, too deliberate—it held her cloak, lifting the fabric to its snout, inhaling deeply as if memorizing her scent.

Ceryn didn’t stop running until she reached the village outskirts, her lungs burning, sweat freezing on her skin despite the cold morning air. She bent double, hands on her knees, fighting to catch her breath. Empty-handed. Her snares unchecked. And her only winter cloak now in the possession of the creature she’d convinced herself was merely legend.

When her breathing steadied enough that she could think clearly, she straightened and turned toward home, her steps heavy. As she drew closer, the feeling of dread grew. Something was wrong.

Their cottage was on the outskirts of the village but people usually bustled about their daily business, yet no one was around. It was as if the village was deserted, or people were staying inside, their doors and windows barred from the inside. She spied her home and fear clutched at her. The small cottage stood silent, no smoke rising from the chimney though the fall chill demanded a fire. No sound of Maeva’s chatter or her mother’s cooking. The garden gate was unlatched, banging in the autumn breeze.

“Mother?” Ceryn called, approaching the door. “Maeva?”

Silence answered her.

She pushed open the door, the familiar creak of hinges unnaturally loud in the stillness. “Mother? Maeva? Are you?—”

The words died in her throat.

A man sprawled in one of their three mismatched chairs, his booted feet propped on their rickety table, mud caking them. His clothes were rich, dark leather and fine wool, a sword with a jeweled pommel at his hip. Behind him in the shadows of the kitchen stood another man, taller, broader, his face impassive beneath a short-cropped beard, one hand resting on the hilt of his own weapon.

Ceryn knew them both, though she’d only seen them from a distance at the tribute collections. Warlord Aldaric and his general, Rorik. A shadow fell over her from behind and she jumped. A soldier appeared behind her to close the door, trapping her in her own home.

“Ah, the elder daughter returns,” Aldaric said, his tone pleasant as if they were old acquaintances. He gestured around the small cottage. “How fascinating to see how the other half lives. Tell me, does the roof leak when it rains? I’ve always wondered about these... charming little hovels.”

Something sour curled in Ceryn’s stomach, a mixture of fear and rage. A strange, faint smell hung in the air beneath the familiar scents of home—something sickly sweet like rotting fruit or spoiled meat. Like death.

“Where are my mother and sister?” Her voice emerged steadier than she felt, her hand still wrapped around the hilt of her hunting knife, even as she knew it would be her death if she drew in his presence.

“Spirited, aren’t you?” Aldaric smiled, though the expression never reached his cold, dark eyes. “They’re quite safe, I assure you. And they’ll remain so, provided you make the right choice when presented with it.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “I remember your mother as a much prettier woman. Saraid, isn’t it? One of the village beauties in her day. But life is hard out here in the borderlands, isn’t it? Time and grief are cruel sculptors.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

It wasn’t a request. Ceryn sat, keeping her back straight, her hand on her knife, her eyes fixed on the warlord’s face.

---