Moonbound to the Beast King

The queen was dying.

She lay on the cold stone floor of the throne room, blood pooling beneath her. Snow drifted in through the broken windows. Her breathing was faint, shallow, slipping away with every second.

King Damon held her in his arms, his fingers stained red. His heart beat like thunder in his chest.

"No," he whispered. "Stay with me."

Her hand rose weakly to touch his cheek. "I am sorry," she said. "You'll carry it… always."

He shook his head. "Don't speak of curses."

But she smiled, small, sad, broken.

"It's already done."

Then her hand fell.

And something inside him snapped.

The ground trembled beneath them. The wind screamed through the tower. A strange light flickered across Damon's skin, blue fire, cold and wild, rising from his body like smoke.

The wolves outside howled once.

Then fell silent.

Inside the hall, Damon stood. His eyes glowed bright gold. His coat fell from his shoulders. His breath misted, heavy and sharp. Magic wrapped around him, fierce and alive, crawling across his skin like claws made of light.

And then... He changed.

Not like a normal shift. Not like the Lycans did during a hunt.

This was something else. Something older. More violent. His mouth opened in a soundless roar.

The wolves, his wolves, backed away. Their ears flattened. Their tails dropped. Even the fiercest of them lowered their heads and fled into the snow.

None dared come close.

When the storm ended, the throne room was in ruins. The pillars had split. The torches were blown out. Snow and ice covered the floor like a second skin.

The queen's body was gone, vanished, as if taken by the storm.

And the king?

He stood alone in the dark, chest rising and falling, his hands now clawed and dripping with blood.

He didn't speak.

He only watched the door.

Waiting.

From that night on, the North never saw summer again.

And when the wolves speak of him now, they do not call him king.

They call him the Beast.