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Pain. All he knew was pain.

It seared through his body like a wildfire, raw and all-consuming, as if every nerve had been set ablaze. His scream split the air, a sound neither wholly human nor beast, ragged and primal. His knees gave out beneath him, but there was no refuge in the dirt—only agony, only the suffocating grip of the pelt as it fused to his skin.

The face of the wolf melded into his own, its presence burrowing deep, its tendrils snaking beneath his flesh like living roots. They coiled around his bones, digging, embedding, claiming. His spine arched violently as the transformation took hold, his back alight with a thousand invisible claws dragging their way down his frame.

Crack.

His mouth tore open in a silent cry as his bones rebelled, warping, stretching—snapping apart and healing in an endless, vicious cycle. The pain became a living thing, curling into the marrow of his being, reshaping him inch by agonizing inch. His ribs caved inward before expanding, his hands contorting as his fingers lengthened, joints popping, muscle tearing and reforming with every breath.

But the worst of all was his teeth.

Pressure built, sharp and relentless, until his human canines shattered under the force of something far more wicked. He clawed at his jaw, choking on his own blood as new fangs ripped their way through his gums, jagged and gleaming. His nails blackened, thickened, stretching into curved talons that gleamed in the flickering light. He could feel his skin hardening, pulling, breaking apart as the pelt's fur pushed into the cracks.

And then came the howl.

It tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the night as the last remnants of his human self buckled beneath the weight of something older, something untamed. The pain ebbed, giving way to something darker.

A hunger.

A knowing.

The beast had awakened.

Veyr rose to his feet, feeling the weight of his new body shift as muscles rolled beneath thick black and white mottled fur. Every sense was alight with new information. Every breath, every noise, every taste that lingered on the air.

His mother gasped.

Eyes with vision unlike anything his human form could give him locked onto her. Small. Old. Frail.

Mother.

Long arms, almost too long for his frame, bent forward to catch himself as he dropped to all fours. The ground beneath his claws felt strange—too soft, too yielding. His body was too large, too heavy, his limbs stretching and shifting as he adjusted to his new form. The world sharpened around him, his ears twitching at the sound of his mother's heartbeat, fast and uncertain. The scent of fear curled from her skin, sharp as a blade.

He knew her.

His mother. His kin.

But the beast within him did not care for blood ties. It did not recognize her as anything more than prey.

His breath came ragged, misting in the cold air as he struggled against the instincts clawing at his mind. The hunger roared beneath his ribs, primal and insatiable, demanding he act, demanding he take.

She took a step back, one frail hand raised as if to ward him off. "Veyr," she whispered, her voice thin, trembling.

The name meant something. It anchored him—if only for a moment.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself still. His claws gouged deep furrows into the earth as he fought the urge to lunge. His body vibrated with the effort, muscles coiled tight, his breathing erratic.

The beast did not want restraint.

It wanted blood.

A low snarl rumbled from his throat, a warning. He had to go. Now. Before he lost himself completely.

He turned sharply, the motion jarring, unnatural, as if his body had not yet learned the full extent of what it could do. His vision swam, adjusting to the dim light of the forest beyond, where the shadows ran deep and the scent of prey was thick. The hunger followed him like a whisper, curling around his bones, urging him forward.

Without another glance back, he ran.

The trees blurred past him as he tore through the woods, faster than he had ever moved before, his massive paws barely making a sound on the frost-kissed earth. The wind screamed past his ears, but he could still hear everything—the rustle of small creatures burrowing beneath the undergrowth, the distant call of an owl, the steady thump-thump of his own heart.

He needed control. He needed clarity.

But all he had was the hunger.

The scent of something living—something warm—drifted toward him on the wind, and before he could stop himself, he turned toward it.

He didn't think.

He hunted.

WC: 765