Lyander staggered back, one hand gripping his chest as a violent tremor rippled through his body.
His veins pulsed black beneath his skin, glowing like molten lines of obsidian. Steam hissed off his flesh as his muscles bulged, bones cracking, reforming.
Then came the scream—not of pain, but of transformation.
His spine arched backward with a sickening snap, fur tearing through his skin in dark waves. His limbs elongated, claws erupting from his fingertips, fangs splitting through his jaw.
His eyes burned—gold at first, then black-ringed and glowing with a wild, unholy light. The air itself thickened with raw power, heavy and ancient. A growl tore from his throat, low and guttural, shaking the ground beneath him.
He was no longer a man. No longer just a werewolf.
He had become a Lycanthrope—a perfect fusion of demon and beast, a creature of legend and nightmare.
