The Werewolf's Bride
It pulsed faintly, alive, ancient, humming with power that made the air taste metallic.
The fang of the betrayer.
Elara’s fingers trembled as she lifted it.
The moment her skin touched the ivory, pain exploded through her, white, hot, blinding.
She dropped to her knees, fang clattering to the stone. The curse roared awake inside her, furious, hungry, tearing at the edges of her hybrid form. Her claws extended fully, silver, black, then snapped back. Fur surged across her arms, her throat, then receded in violent waves. Bones cracked, realigning, protesting. Her vision split, human sight overlaid with wolf sharpness, colors too bright, shadows too deep.