Mark of the curse

The smell of smoke reached them long before the town came into view. It clung to the wind thick, bitter, and sharp enough to sting the eyes. Hooves thundered against the dirt path as Alaric Varyn led his warriors through the dark forest, their cloaks snapping behind them like shadows. The night pressed close, heavy with the promise of blood.

Ahead, the sky glowed red. The light from the burning town flickered through the trees, painting their faces in fire. Ash drifted in the wind, landing on Alaric’s dark hair and armour. His storm-grey eyes narrowed. Somewhere beyond the blaze, people were screaming.

“Alpha!” one of his men shouted. “They’re closing in on the villagers!”

Alaric didn’t look back. His voice was low, clipped. “Then we ride faster.”

The command spread like a pulse through the pack. Horses surged forward, the forest blurring around them “Soldiers in squad one attack from the rear, squad two gather the women and children and Alpha squad stick with me”. The soldiers quickly complied following the orders given to them. The smell of sap, earth, and smoke filled their lungs. The closer they rode, the hotter the air became. Flames licked at the night sky, devouring roofs and fences. By the time they broke through the tree line, the town was burning in full.

Fire ran through the streets. People scattered in every direction mothers dragging children, men wielding broken tools as weapons. And in the chaos moved the rogues, wild and twisted wolves whose minds had long since rotted.

Alaric was off his horse before it stopped. His boots struck the ground hard. The curse in his blood stirred, coiling deep beneath his skin. His claws slid out, dark and sharp as obsidian. The air around him shifted, thickening with power.

He didn’t wait quickly He moved cutting down as many as he could quickly and swiftly.

The first rogue lunged. Alaric’s sword cut through it in one clean motion. Another came from the side, snarling. He turned, silent as shadow, and ended it before its growl finished. He fought without sound or hesitation, every strike deliberate. The heat of the fire flashed against his blade, painting the fight in orange and red.

His men followed close behind, trained to match the rhythm of his fury. Growls and steel filled the air. The scent of blood and burning wood tangled together until they were indistinguishable.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was only seconds. Then, at last, it was over. The women and children were saved and most of the fire was put out.

The final rogue hit the ground, and silence slowly took the place of screams. The townsfolk began to emerge from hiding faces streaked with soot, eyes wide with fear and awe. Someone whispered his name. Then another voice rose, trembling but certain.

“His Majesty Alaric! The Alpha has saved us!”

The cry spread through the crowd. Relief burst like sunlight after a storm. Some fell to their knees, weeping. Others lifted their hands, reaching toward him in gratitude. Children peeked out from behind their mothers, their small faces dirty but bright with wonder.

For a heartbeat, Alaric stood still among them, the hero they thought he was. But the warmth pressing toward him made his curse twitch beneath his skin. It came alive, a dark pulse under his veins hungry, eager.

He stepped back sharply. “Stay back.”

His Beta, Edric Thorne, raised his hand at once. “No one touches the Alpha!” as he struggled to push them back stopping them from touching the Alpha, he knew what could happen and how quickly victory could turn to sorrow.

But desperation is louder than reason the people were enamoured by the presence of the Alpha, their saviour was before them real and very present it seemed almost surreal that they had to touch him to be sure

A young woman barely grown, her dress torn and face streaked with ash broke from the crowd. “Thank you, my lord!” she cried as she ran forward.

“Wait!” Edric shouted, but she didn’t stop, in her ragged dress she ran towards him as if he was her only hope She reached Alaric and caught his arm with both hands taking him in and as quickly as the excitement started so it ended.

Her smile froze. The light in her eyes went out like a candle. She crumpled at his feet, silent, lifeless.

Gasps rippled through the square. Then came a scream a long, broken sound that tore through the night.

Alaric didn’t move. His chest felt hollow, his throat dry as dust. The girl lay still before him, her skin pale, her body untouched. No blood. No wound. Just absence.

The curse had taken her.

He turned away before anyone could see his face. His voice was calm, too calm. “See to her family.”

His men obeyed without question. No one spoke.

Alaric walked toward the edge of the square, the firelight flickering over his armour. Smoke curled around him, and the cries behind him faded to whispers. The curse throbbed in his veins, quiet now, satisfied.

He drew in a breath that hurt to take.

And then the memory came.

He was sixteen again, rain pouring down in the royal gardens. Mud on his hands, his clothes torn from his first transformation. He had hidden behind a marble statue, shaking from pain and fear.

A voice had found him then soft, kind. His mother’s maid. She’d knelt beside him, her face full of worry. “You’re still human, my prince,” she’d said, reaching to touch his cheek.

The moment her fingers brushed his skin, her body went still. Her eyes widened. She fell without a sound.

That was the first time he understood. Kindness could kill. Touch was poison. The curse took whatever it wanted, and it always wanted life.

Alaric blinked the memory away and mounted his horse. The villagers stood frozen, their earlier gratitude now replaced by dread. The fires behind him had burned low, leaving only smoke and embers.

He didn’t look back. He never did.

Another innocent dead because of him.

Another reminder that he was not just Alpha. He was death itself.