The wind howled through the shattered gatehouse of Greymoor Keep like a wounded animal. Overhead, a bloated moon hung low in a bruised sky, its pale light carving silver edges on the jagged remains of what had once been a proud fortress. The smell of damp stone, rotting wood, and something else — something metallic and feral — drifted through the ruined courtyard.
Varek, a towering human fighter clad in dented steel plate armor scarred by a dozen campaigns, stepped through the collapsed archway first. His greatsword rested on one shoulder, its edge catching the moonlight. Behind him moved Lyssara, a tiefling warlock with deep crimson skin and swept-back obsidian horns. Her violet eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, arcane energy curling around her fingertips like smoke. “The wards I placed at the perimeter are already broken,” she murmured, her voice low and tense. “Something powerful is here.”
Brogdan, a stout dwarf cleric in heavy chainmail with a golden sun emblem of Pelor hanging from his neck, muttered a prayer as he gripped his warhammer tighter. The holy symbol pulsed with faint warmth against his chest. Beside him, Faelinn — a wood elf rogue with close-cropped silver hair and olive skin — slipped through the shadows like water, her twin curved daggers already drawn. She pressed a finger to her lips and pointed toward the great hall ahead, where faint, ragged breathing echoed off the stone.
They moved through the hall in silence. The vaulted ceiling above had partially collapsed, and moonlight poured through the gap like a spotlight on a stage. Toppled pillars lay across cracked flagstone, and the remnants of a great chandelier hung at a grotesque angle from a single chain. At the far end, on a crumbling stone throne covered in claw marks, sat a shape that was not quite human.
“Lord Aldric?” Varek called out, his voice steady but cautious. The village below had sent them to find the missing lord of Greymoor — a noble who had vanished three moons ago. They expected a prisoner. They expected a corpse. They did not expect the figure on the throne to raise its head and reveal a face caught between man and beast, amber eyes blazing with animal fury and something worse — recognition.
The creature that had been Lord Aldric Voss surged from the throne with terrifying speed. Matted grey fur rippled over a frame of corded muscle, and elongated claws screeched against stone as it lunged. Tattered remnants of fine clothing still clung to its body — velvet and silk now shredded and stained. Its jaws split open, revealing rows of razor-sharp fangs, and a howl tore from its throat that shook dust from the ceiling.
Varek barely got his greatsword up in time. The impact drove him back three steps, boots scraping furrows in the flagstone. “It’s him!” Faelinn shouted from the shadows, her daggers flashing as she sliced across the beast’s flank. “The lord — he’s the werewolf!” Brogdan raised his warhammer and called upon Pelor’s light. Golden radiance exploded from the weapon, searing the creature’s fur and drawing a shriek of pain. But the werewolf twisted with unnatural agility, swiping the dwarf aside with a backhand that sent him crashing into a pillar.
Lyssara stepped forward, eldritch power blazing between her horns. “Aldric!” she commanded, her voice laced with arcane compulsion. “I know you’re still in there. Fight it!” The werewolf froze mid-lunge, its amber eyes flickering — beast and man warring behind them. For one breathless moment, a human voice rasped from the monstrous throat: “Kill… me… before I kill… everyone…” Then the beast roared back, and the moment shattered.
In the end, it was Faelinn who made the choice. While the others held the creature at bay — Varek’s steel ringing against claws, Brogdan’s prayers holding a barrier of golden light, Lyssara’s chains of shadow binding one massive arm — the elf rogue slipped behind the throne and found what she had been looking for: a silver locket engraved with the Voss family crest, resting in a pool of dried blood. She cracked it open and whispered the name inscribed inside. The werewolf staggered, howled once more — and collapsed, shrinking, bones cracking and reshaping until Lord Aldric lay naked and trembling on the cold stone floor.
He wept as Brogdan wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. “It comes back,” Aldric whispered, staring at the claw marks on his own hands. “Every full moon. I can feel it waiting.” The party exchanged glances in the moonlight. The curse was not broken — only paused. And the next full moon was only six nights away.
💬 Would you have tried to save Lord Aldric — or honored his plea and put him down before the next moon rises? Tell us in the comments! 👇