The fire crackled low, small enough not to draw attention—just enough to keep the cold at bay.
Ronan sat cross-legged beside it, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The rune-etched greatsword rested across his lap, still stained in places with blackened blood that smelled like rot and old nightmares. The silver glinted red in the firelight. The forest around him had gone quiet again, but he didn't trust silence. Silence could lie.
The smell of ash and pine was familiar. Safe, even. But under it, something else lingered—something new.
Voices.
He heard them before they stepped into the firelight.
Four figures approached, cautious but not afraid. Armor creaked. A lantern swung gently in the hand of the lead—a woman in scale mail with a fur-lined cloak and a hunting spear strapped to her back. Her eyes met Ronan's with the kind of confidence only seasoned warriors carried.
"Evening," she said, halting at the edge of the clearing. "Didn't mean to spook you."
Ronan didn't stop sharpening. "Didn't."
"You alone?" asked a second voice—a younger man with a bow and too many questions in his posture.
Ronan glanced up, one icy blue eye catching the lantern light. "So far."
That earned a wary look. The armored woman cleared her throat. "Name's Captain Brynn. We're part of a patrol out of Graymere. Caravan went missing on the north road two nights back. We're tracking signs of… something."
Ronan arched a brow. "What kind of 'something'?"
She exchanged a glance with her crew before answering. "Could be any number of things. Locals've reported all kinds lately—"
The archer chimed in, ticking them off on his fingers. "Owlbears, driders, a manticore last week. Someone swore they saw a shadow moving like a man with no face. Then there's the whispers about those… corpse-stitched things. Flesh golems."
Ronan finally stopped sharpening. "Busy season."
Brynn nodded grimly. "Too busy. You see anything strange tonight?"
He looked up at the moon—now silver, calm, and cruel—and gave a half-smile.
"Define strange."
One of the other patrol members chuckled nervously. "He's joking, right?"
Ronan didn't answer. He slid the blade back into its sheath and stood. Even with the fire between them, his presence felt heavier than it should have. Taller than they expected. Wrong in a way they couldn't place.
But Brynn didn't flinch. She stepped forward.
"We're moving east come morning. If you've seen anything—heard anything—we'd appreciate a warning."
Ronan's gaze drifted to the treetops. "Three nothings with claws came down from that ridge." He pointed without looking. "Didn't leave much behind."
Brynn blinked. "You took down three fiends alone?"
"I was bored."
A beat of silence.
Then: "We'll stay near the river," she said slowly, gesturing for her group to move. "Try to keep your fire low. And… watch the skies. Something's been flying overhead after dark."
Ronan nodded once. "Thanks for the warning."
As they left, one of the younger patrolmen muttered, "What the hell is he?"
Ronan waited until they were gone before answering, softly, to the night:
"Still figuring that out."
The fire had burned down to embers.
Ronan lay against a tree with his sword resting nearby, arms crossed, cloak pulled low over his face. The forest had returned to its usual rhythm—rustling leaves, distant owls, wind brushing through branches like whispered secrets. His body was still, his breathing steady. He looked asleep.
But his senses never really turned off.
Crack.
A twig snapped underfoot. Not far. Light step. Intentional… but not careful enough.
Ronan's eyes snapped open, glowing gold in the dark.
He didn't move. Not yet.
Another step. Closer. The scent hit him a moment later—nervous sweat, cheap leather, and steel oil. He recognized it.
The young archer from the patrol.
Ronan shifted his head just enough to see the flicker of a shadow moving along the edge of his camp, the faint gleam of a drawn dagger. The kid was creeping in with the worst kind of confidence—misguided. Desperate.
He was maybe five paces away now, crouched low, boots silent on the leaves. One arm raised for a clean thrust to the throat. Maybe he thought it would be quick. Maybe he thought Ronan didn't deserve better.
He's shaking, Ronan thought. Not trained for this.
Ronan's voice cut through the dark like a blade.
"You should've gone with something quieter than leather soles."
The kid froze—completely.
Ronan was already standing.
It happened fast. Too fast for the boy to react. One moment, Ronan was against the tree. The next, he had his sword drawn—not fully, just enough to show the edge—and his golden eye glowing like fire through shadow.
The boy stumbled backward, dagger still raised. "I—I wasn't gonna—"
"Kill me in my sleep?" Ronan stepped forward. "Bad plan."
The fire behind him flared suddenly, crimson lightning pulsing through the runes of his blade like a heartbeat. His voice dropped, cold and cutting:
"You get one chance to explain before I decide if I'm in the mood to be merciful."
The archer's hands shook now. "I thought you were one of them. One of the monsters. Brynn wouldn't listen—she likedyou. Said you had honor. But I saw your eyes. I saw what you did. That wasn't normal!"
Ronan's jaw tightened. "You came to my camp. With a dagger. In the dark."
He stepped closer. The boy flinched.
"I've hunted things with mouths on their backs and bones growing out of their skin. And still, it's always humans that do the dirtiest work."
For a moment, he considered letting the beast come forward—just a little. Enough to show this kid what real monsters looked like.
But he didn't.
Instead, he grabbed the dagger from the boy's hand with a speed that blurred and threw it into the tree behind them. It stuck fast—hilt vibrating from the force.
Ronan's voice was flat now.
"Run back to your friends. Tell them you didn't find any monsters."
The boy hesitated.
Ronan's golden eye narrowed. "Now."
He ran.
Branches snapped behind him, echoing through the trees. When the sound faded, Ronan exhaled—slowly—and stared at the emberlight of his fire.
His jaw clenched.
Control… control...
He looked at his hands. Claws had started to form. He hadn't noticed.
Not until it was almost too late.
Ronan turned from the trees, tension still coiled in his shoulders. His heartbeat pounded—not from fear, but from the edge. The urge. The beast didn't like being threatened in its sleep.
He moved back toward his firepit, letting the claws slowly retract, breathing in time with the dim crackle of dying embers.
Just sleep. Just a few hours. No more surprises—
WHAM!
Something huge and fast slammed into him from the left.
Ronan's body went airborne, crashing through a bush and smashing into a tree trunk with a dull crack. Bark split. His sword flew from his grip, clattering somewhere in the dark. His vision spun with impact. Pain flared across his ribs—deep, wrong. He tasted blood in his mouth.
He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, and rolled through dirt and leaves until finally coming to a stop at the base of a slope.
Everything was quiet again.
Too quiet.
He pushed up on one elbow, ears ringing, breath shallow. The smell hit him next—something ancient, like old metal and rotten scales. Wet heat. Musk. Magic. It made the air feel heavier.
Ronan's head lifted, eyes shifting.
Something moved in the dark. Not footsteps—slithering.
Then a shape emerged.
It was huge—easily twelve feet long—moving like a serpent, but with too many limbs and thick armored plates that pulsed like veins. Its face was split open like a blooming flower of teeth, with a long tongue writhing inside.
Displacer beast? No. Chimera? Wrong limbs…
The thing opened its jaws and hissed. The sound was broken glass and metal grinding.
Ronan spat blood and forced himself upright.
His sword was gone.
His hand flexed. The gauntlet sparked slightly as crimson lightning flickered at his wrist. Not enough. Not without the blade.
"Alright," he growled, his golden eye lighting up again. "You want a monster?"
He cracked his neck—and let the beast inside rise.
The thing lunged.
Ronan barely dodged.
Its weight slammed into the tree behind him, shattering bark like glass and sending splinters through the air. He rolled low, breathing hard, ribs screaming with every motion. One arm dangled uselessly—dislocated. His vision pulsed red.
No time. MOVE.
The beast turned with unnatural grace, tail whipping out behind it. It lashed toward him—Ronan ducked—but the tip caught his back, flinging him like a ragdoll. He skidded across the forest floor, tearing through roots and branches.
He tried to rise.
The creature was already on him.
It slammed one clawed limb into his chest—CRACK. He gasped. Couldn't breathe. The thing leaned down, teeth inches from his face, tongue flicking at the blood running down his neck.
Ronan spat in its eye.
It hissed and threw him again—this time into a rock. He didn't move for a second.
Come on. Get up.
His fingers twitched. His heartbeat slowed, blood pooling beneath him. The edge of his vision started to fade into black.
This is it, a voice whispered.
You're done.
And then…
The moonlight hit him. A silver beam through the shattered canopy. Cold. Beautiful. Merciless.
His eye snapped open—first blue. Then gold.
Ronan screamed—not in fear, but change.
Bones shifted. Muscles stretched. Claws tore from his fingertips as fur split through skin in glowing crimson arcs. His jaw cracked and reshaped, lengthening into a wolfish snarl, fangs dripping lightning. The gauntlet merged into his arm as the markings down his shoulder flared to life.
The Hybrid had arrived.
He stood—not as a man, not fully beast—but something in between. Something built for rage and ruin.
The creature lunged.
Ronan caught it.
Their bodies slammed together like colliding boulders. The beast thrashed—but this time, he didn't move. He roared, claws tearing across its plated face, and the sound echoed through the forest like thunder.
No words now.
Only blood.
Only moonlight.