A painful, high-pitched scream tore through the stillness of the night, jolting Melvin from his deep, drunken sleep. His eyes shot open, and for a moment, he lay motionless, his senses blurred and confused. The only light in the room flickered from a small lamp sitting on the table beside him, casting faint shadows against the rough wooden walls of the cottage. As he blinked himself fully awake, the soft warmth of the naked woman beside him brought him back to reality.

Her chest rose and fell in the dim light, and her tousled hair spilled across the pillow. The blanket had slipped down, revealing more of her than she had probably intended. But as the scream echoed again, she too stirred awake, her face scrunching with worry.

“What is it?” she whispered, her voice tinged with fear. “Is it my husband?”

Melvin sat up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, and shook his head. “No chance it’s him. I told him to guard the farm tonight. The pigs were tearing up the crops—he’ll be there until dawn.”

The woman bit her lip, her anxiety still present. “Then what was that scream?”

Melvin stood up, pulling on his trousers in a hurry. “You stay here. I’ll go check.”

He grabbed his boots, quickly shoving his feet into them before reaching for his cloak hanging by the door. The room was small, barely big enough for the bed and the rickety table with the dimly burning lamp. The smell of stale ale still lingered in the air from the night before, and the remnants of their meal sat untouched on the floor. With a heavy sigh, Melvin pulled open the door.

The scream grew louder, more desperate, until he finally saw the source—a figure thrashing wildly on the ground, yelling and clawing at the air as if fighting off invisible enemies. The dim moonlight revealed the man’s features, and Melvin recognized him immediately.

It was Lucas.

Lucas was on his back, his arms flailing wildly as he screamed incoherently, his eyes wide with terror. He was fending off something—something Melvin couldn’t see.

“Lucas!” Melvin called out, quickening his pace. “What in the name of the spirits are you doing?”

But Lucas didn’t respond. His screams only grew louder, and he swung his arms as though fighting off a pack of invisible attackers. Melvin grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake.

“Lucas! Wake up! What’s wrong with you? You’re screaming loud enough to wake the whole village!”

Lucas blinked rapidly, his panicked eyes darting around as if still searching for something in the shadows. His chest heaved, his breath ragged, but slowly he began to calm down under Melvin’s grip. “M-Melvin?” he stammered, his voice shaking. “It’s you… Oh, thank the gods.”

Melvin let out a deep sigh, releasing Lucas and stepping back. He glanced around the dark forest, half-expecting someone else to come running at the sound of Lucas’s screams, but the night remained eerily silent. Not a soul stirred from the village.

“What happened?” Melvin asked, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “You nearly scared me half to death with all that noise.”

Lucas sat up slowly, his hands still trembling as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “I was attacked,” he whispered, his eyes darting around the forest as though the attackers were still out there, lurking. “Wolves, Melvin. They were white, with red eyes... so many of them. They were all around me.”

Melvin rolled his eyes, though a flicker of unease settled in his chest. “They weren’t wolves, Lucas,” he said, his voice low. “They were wolf spirits. My uncle must’ve sent them.”

Lucas’s eyes widened with fear. “Wolf spirits?” he echoed. “But why... why would they come for me, Melvin?”

Melvin couldn’t help but smile at Lucas’s bewilderment. “Because, Lucas,” he said, his voice tinged with arrogance, “the wolves won’t attack me. I have the favor of the wolf spirits.”

Lucas blinked, still confused. “But why... why would your uncle send them after me?”

With a deep sigh, Melvin turned and started walking, heading back towards the manor, leaving Lucas to follow close behind. “I don’t know, Lucas,” Melvin said over his shoulder, “but I can’t waste time here. My uncle is expecting me.”

As the two of them made their way through the woods, Lucas kept glancing nervously over his shoulder, as if expecting the wolf spirits to reappear at any moment. His face was still pale, and his hands shook as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “You’re sure they won’t come back?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

As they reached the sprawling manor grounds, the moonlight illuminated the vast estate that loomed ahead. The manor itself was grand, with high stone walls and towering windows, surrounded by lush greenery that seemed to stretch on forever. The air felt thick with the weight of ancient history, as if the land itself held the memories of generations long past.

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Lucas veered off toward the servant quarters, a smaller, less ornate building nestled in the shadows near the edge of the estate. He paused for a moment, casting a glance back at Melvin, who continued walking toward the main compound. Even though Lucas and Melvin often behaved like old friends, the unspoken divide between them was ever-present. Melvin was the noble heir of the Wolfkin family, and Lucas, though trusted, was a servant—albeit one with an unusually close bond to his master.

Despite the lines drawn by birth and status, they had grown up side by side, practically inseparable during their youth. It was Lucas who taught Melvin the ways of the world, though not always in the most responsible fashion. The bad habits that had come to define Melvin—the drinking, the womanizing, the late-night escapades—were all things Lucas had introduced to him in their younger days. These were the very traits that the rest of the Wolfkin family had grown to despise, and yet, because Melvin favored him, Lucas remained in his position as a trusted servant.

For Lucas, life in the manor was far better than what might have awaited him elsewhere. Despite his role as a servant, he wielded a certain influence over Melvin, a power few could understand. And Melvin, for all his reckless behavior, relied on Lucas in ways that others couldn’t see. It was this mutual dependence that kept Lucas in the Wolfkin household, even when whispers among the other servants questioned why he had not been sent away.

Lucas glanced toward the manor one last time before heading to his quarters for the night. Sleep would not come easily after the encounter with the wolf spirits, but for now, he would try to rest.

Melvin, on the other hand, walked with a steady pace toward the main compound of the manor. The large oak doors creaked slightly as he pushed them open, stepping into the grand hall. The air inside was cool, and the flickering light from the sconces cast long shadows along the stone walls. This place was his birthright, the seat of the Wolfkin family’s power, yet Melvin often felt more at ease outside its walls. Still, there was an odd sense of comfort in returning here after the strange events of the night.

As Melvin approached the manor, he noticed a dim light glowing from the steward’s quarters. His footsteps slowed, his restless thoughts drifting to the steward’s daughter. The dissatisfaction with his night's rest tugged at him, urging him toward something more tempting, more immediate. He knew exactly where she slept, a secret that both thrilled and troubled him, but in the stillness of the night, temptation often won.

Without a second thought, he altered his path, moving quietly through the shadows. He reached the side of the quarters, where a small, weathered window led to the room she stayed in. His knuckles brushed the glass, tapping lightly. After a moment, the window creaked open, and there she stood—eyes sleepy but alert, her delicate features softened in the moonlight. Her beauty always took his breath away, a brief escape from the burdens of family and destiny.

“Melvin, you need to go,” she whispered urgently. Her voice was low but firm. “Your mother and uncle are waiting for you at the manor. If you don’t go now, your uncle will come any moment.”

Melvin’s lips curved into a mischievous smile, his charm bubbling to the surface. He leaned closer, ready to persuade her, perhaps even to convince her to let him in. But just as he began to speak, a voice called out from behind him.

“Melvin. Come with me.”

The command sent a cold shiver down Melvin's spine. He froze, his heart pounding as he slowly turned around. There, standing in the dark, was his uncle, Lord Morven, his presence as imposing as ever. The steward’s daughter hurriedly closed the window pane in front of his face, the soft sound of the latch clicking shut marking her retreat.

Melvin could feel the weight of his uncle’s gaze as Lord Morven approached, his face stern and unreadable in the dim light. Without a word, his uncle turned and began walking toward the manor. Melvin, his usual defiance suppressed by the moment, followed without protest, falling in line like the obedient nephew he was expected to be.

As Melvin followed his uncle down the long, stone corridor toward the ritual room, a sense of inevitability weighed heavily on him. The air grew thicker the closer they got to the room, where countless family rites had taken place for generations. He knew what awaited him behind those doors—something he had avoided thinking about for years. The magic of the wolf spirit. A legacy he was now forced to embrace.

Just as they reached the entrance, Lord Morven stopped abruptly, turning to face his nephew. His eyes, deep and knowing, held a gravity Melvin hadn’t seen in them before.

"Go and clean yourself. Take a bath and return quickly," his uncle commanded. "I’m going to teach you the magic of the wolf spirit. My time is ending. I won’t be here much longer. It's time you learned what you’ve been destined to inherit."

Melvin, for once, felt no defiance. There was something in his uncle’s words that demanded obedience, something final. Nodding silently, he turned and made his way to the small indoor pool the manor kept, a sanctuary of calm water lit by flickering torches along the walls.

As he neared the pool, he almost didn't notice the figure standing in the shadowed alcove. His mother, Meredith, stepped forward, her expression stern, her voice carrying the sharpness of a long-buried disappointment.

“You’ve been a disappointment to this family your entire life, Melvin,” she said, her words like daggers. “Your uncle has carried the weight of the Wolfkin name with honor, and now he’s dying. When he's gone, you will become the Lord of Wolfkin, the next shaman. This isn’t a role you can avoid any longer. You need to uphold our title with honor, or you will ruin everything we have built.”

Melvin stood there, momentarily struck by her harsh words, but not entirely surprised. His mother had always been the stern voice of the family, never failing to remind him of his shortcomings. And yet, this time felt different. There was a sense of urgency behind her words, the finality of their reality creeping into her tone.

Without responding, Melvin moved past her and entered the pool room. Slowly, he stepped into the water, the coolness embracing his skin. The weight of his night’s indulgences—the ale, the lingering smell of unclean things—began to dissolve. As the water washed over him, he felt something shift within himself, as if the burden of his old self was being stripped away, leaving only the raw potential of what he could become.

The reflection in the water was no longer that of a careless man. He stared into his own eyes, searching for something, and for the first time, he glimpsed the shadow of his own legacy.