The Mark of the Beast

The air in the small room, meant for weary travelers seeking respite, felt thick tonight, heavy with an unspoken tension that had been building within me for days. Outside, the moon, a sliver of bone against the velvet sky, offered little comfort. It was a constant, gnawing reminder of the beast that clawed at the edges of my sanity, the creature I fought to contain with every fiber of my being.

Anna had left me with a simple herbal tea, its scent of chamomile and lavender meant to soothe. It did little to calm the tremor in my hands, the restless energy that coiled in my gut. I traced the worn wood of the table, the roughness of it a grounding sensation against my skin. Each day spent here, in the quiet embrace of the temple, chipped away at the hardened shell I’d built around myself. But with that softening came a terrifying vulnerability, a fear that the cracks would eventually splinter, letting the darkness spill out.

The night before had been a near thing. The first stirrings of the change had begun as an ache in my bones, a feverish heat that spread through my limbs. I’d retreated to the small, sturdy shed at the edge of the temple grounds, a place Anna had designated for my solitary nights, a place I’d hoped would contain the inevitable. But the primal urge, the hunger, had been a roaring tide, threatening to drown the man I was trying so desperately to be. I remembered the guttural growl that had escaped my throat, the desperate scrabbling of my fingernails against the rough-hewn wood, the sheer, unadulterated terror of losing myself.