"Vaxel Soridor." The herald called his name, sounding like a funeral bell's toll. Vaxel's legs betrayed his commands to stop, moving toward the Shard. He could feel his hands, his legs, his very bones shaking. He looked up, the Shard looming over him, a reaper come to collect his soul. He carefully placed his hands on the Shard.

Cold. An ancient cold, like permafrost's touch on a coffin. And then-A wrenching pain drove through his skull. A multitude of screaming voices battered at his mind-Bones cracking, skin tearing, heads falling. A boy, his head floating in a pot. A servant, bound to a table as the nobles crowded around. A girl, Making her final protests as an executioner lifted their axe.

Vaxel's knees buckled. His hands burned with pain, and became shriveled and black. The Shard split into multitudes of tiny pieces.

"Necromancer!" A villager cried.

"He tainted the Shard!"

"Kill him before he calls the dead!"

Torian Rivener stood at the balcony atop the castle ramparts, watching the proceedings. When the commotion arose, he didn't scream, or even start in fear. Instead, he simply gave a slow grin.

"I think it's time to remind everyone why I am called The Huntmaster." He shook off his robes, revealing a body tainted with scars. On the side of his neck, a sigil glowed-A crescent moon, with three gashes torn through it. He let out a howl. His body cracked and deformed, his jaw elongated, and his teeth sharpened to razor-fine points. Below, the same happened to the villagers.

"Find him! Feed the Moon! Let none but the bones remember him!"

Dozens of figures moved at once, the efficiency of blade and shield forgotten in the werewolves' frenzy. They no longer had any presence of mind, save for one thing-KILL. They lunged for Vaxel, but he was already running.

He darted past hallways, the breathing and howls behind him only growing louder. His vision blurred, saving energy for the mind, thinking of what to do. He thought of all of the servant corridors, the hiding spots, the places where he could defend himself.

He turned around a corner, getting a narrow slash in his ribs from a nearby werewolf, before crashing through an old, rotted, wooden door. He tumbled down a set of stairs, before coming to rest in a pile of bones.

Whispers crowded his mind:

"One of us?"

"No, he breathes."

"He bleeds."

"He will suffice."

A scratching of claws against stone gradually became louder, until a werewolf leapt for him. A drop of blood fell onto the bones below.