Whispers of Discord

The scent of woodsmoke, usually a comforting balm on the evening air, now carried a sharp, acrid tang that prickled Leo’s nose. He sat on the familiar, moss-covered stump at the edge of the village, his human form feeling strangely heavy, like a borrowed coat. Elder Maeve’s words echoed in his mind, a gentle chiding about his late returns, but tonight, her usual knowing gaze seemed troubled, tinged with a worry that mirrored the unease settling in his own gut.

Back in the village, things had begun to shift. The river, once a boisterous ribbon of life, had slowed to a sluggish crawl, its waters murky and listless. The berry bushes, usually laden with plump, jewel-toned fruit, bore only shriveled, bitter offerings. A creeping blight seemed to be draining the vibrancy from everything it touched, and a hushed anxiety had begun to weave its way through the villagers' conversations. Whispers of ill omens and forgotten curses replaced the usual cheerful gossip. Leo had overheard hushed discussions about the sacred grove, its ancient trees appearing unnaturally gaunt, their leaves brittle and pale.

He flexed his fingers, the skin feeling alien and too smooth. Beneath the surface, he could still feel the nascent power thrumming, the echo of scales and claws that were now his own when he crossed the shimmering veil. He’d spent his days as Leo, helping with chores, listening to the elders’ tales, and trying to ignore the growing fear in his neighbors’ eyes. But his nights, and the stolen hours in between, were spent as… something else.