Chapter 4 : First Transformation

The moon was a thief.

It stole Alan''s control piece by piece, hour by hour. The first night at court, he lay in the narrow bed of his assigned chamber, feeling the pull like a physical hand on his spine. The moon wasn''t full yet—three days to go—but it was close enough to whisper. Close enough to promise.

His room was small, stone-walled, with a single slit window overlooking the palace gardens. He''d been placed here deliberately, he suspected. Far from the prince''s quarters. Close to the gardens, where any midnight wandering would be noticed by the guards. A test. Or a trap.

The days passed in a blur of protocol and politics.

As one of Charles''s six chosen companions, Alan''s life fell into a rigid pattern: dawn prayers in the chapel (where he avoided Elder Joachim''s searching gaze), morning lessons in statecraft and theology, afternoon military training, evening court functions where nobles sized each other up like merchants at a slave market.

Friedrich von Wittelsbach had also been chosen. Third place, to Alan''s fourth. The Bavarian never missed an opportunity to remind everyone of the ranking.

"Still cleaning stables, Wolf?" Friedrich asked during sword practice, loud enough for the training master to hear.

Alan parried, riposted, deliberately left an opening. Friedrich took it, scoring a touch on Alan''s shoulder. The training master nodded approval.

"Point to von Wittelsbach."

Friedrich smirked. Alan bowed, hiding his own smile. Let him win the practice bouts. Let him think he was superior. The real battle wasn''t happening in the training yard.

The real battle was happening in Alan''s blood.

On the second night, the dreams started.

Not dreams, exactly. Memories. But not his memories. The wolf''s memories. Or the collective memory of the Wolf family, passed down in blood and bone.

He dreamed of running through ancient forests, the scent of deer thick in his nostrils. Of howling at a moon so bright it turned night to silver day. Of tearing into warm flesh, blood hot and salty on his tongue. Of protecting a pack—not just wolves, but humans too. A mixed family, living on the edge of the Roman Empire, hiding from both barbarians and civilization.

He woke each morning with the taste of blood in his mouth and a longing in his chest that felt like homesickness for a place he''d never been.

On the third day, Elder Joachim summoned him.

Not to the confessional this time, but to the palace archives. A room filled with dust and secrets. Joachim sat at a table piled with ancient ledgers, his fingers stained with ink.

"Alan," he said without looking up. "Sit. I have questions about your family''s service records."

Alan sat. The chair creaked. "What service records?"

"From the Battle of Belgrade. 1456." Joachim opened a ledger, pointed to an entry. "Your grandfather, Heinrich von Wolf. He commanded a company of fifty men. They held the southern gate for six hours against three hundred Ottoman troops. Every man in his company survived. Every. Single. One."

He looked up. His eyes were calm, curious. Not accusing. Yet. "In a battle where the overall casualty rate was forty percent, your grandfather''s company had zero deaths. Minor injuries only. How do you explain that?"

"Good leadership," Alan said. "Good training. Luck."

"Luck doesn''t last six hours against six-to-one odds." Joachim turned a page. "Then there''s the matter of the scouts. Your grandfather''s men were famous for their scouting abilities. They could find enemy camps miles away. In the dark. In fog. How?"

"My grandfather had excellent trackers."

"Trackers who could smell Ottoman campfires from five miles away?" Joachim''s voice remained mild. "According to this report, one of his scouts claimed he could ''taste the fear'' of the enemy horses. An interesting turn of phrase."

Alan''s palms were sweating. He kept his face neutral. "Soldiers say strange things under stress."

"Indeed they do." Joachim closed the ledger. "But patterns are patterns. And I''m a man who believes in patterns. Your family has a pattern of surviving impossible situations. Of having senses sharper than should be possible. Of healing from wounds that should be fatal."

He leaned forward. "I''m not accusing anyone of anything. I''m simply... curious. And in my line of work, curiosity is both a virtue and a danger."

"What do you want?" Alan asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

"Truth," Joachim said simply. "Not necessarily the whole truth. Not necessarily now. But eventually. The Church needs to understand what it''s dealing with. Are we dealing with demons? Or with... something else? Something that could be useful?"

He stood, walking to a shelf. He pulled down another book—older, its binding crumbling. "Do you know what this is?"

Alan shook his head.

"The Malleus Maleficarum. The Hammer of Witches. Published twenty years ago. It''s become the standard guide for identifying and prosecuting witchcraft." He opened it to a marked page. "Listen: ''Certain witches, being transformed into wolves, do range abroad at night, devouring infants and sometimes men.''"

He looked at Alan. "That''s what the Church officially believes. That''s what I''m supposed to believe. But I''ve read the trial records. I''ve seen the ''evidence.'' Old women confessing under torture to things they couldn''t possibly have done. Peasants blaming their neighbors for failed crops. It''s... messy. Unscientific."

He closed the book. "I think there might be real phenomena behind some of the stories. Not demons. Not witchcraft as the Church defines it. But... abilities. Gifts. Curses. Call them what you will. And I think your family has them."

Alan said nothing. What could he say?

"I''m giving you a choice," Joachim continued. "Help me understand. Help me separate the real from the superstition. In return, I''ll protect you. Not just from the Inquisition, but from the dowager empress. From Friedrich and his ilk. From anyone who might see you as a threat."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I continue my investigation. And I have many resources. Many questions. Starting with your mother."

The word hung in the air between them. A threat. A promise.

"I need time," Alan said.

"You have until the next full moon," Joachim said. "After that... well. Let''s just say the moon has a way of revealing truths we try to hide."

He dismissed Alan with a wave.

That night, the moon rose fat and heavy in the sky. One day to full.

Alan couldn''t sleep. His skin itched. His bones ached. His teeth felt too big for his mouth. He got up, dressed quietly, slipped out of his room.

The palace gardens were deserted at this hour. Or should have been. But Alan''s senses told him otherwise. He could smell the guards at their posts. Hear their quiet conversations. Sense the patterns of their patrols.

He moved like a shadow, using the skills his grandfather had taught him. Staying downwind. Moving when the guards'' backs were turned. Using the cover of hedges and statues.

He reached the rose garden, a secluded spot surrounded by high walls. Here, at least, he could breathe. Could let the mask slip for a moment.

Bad idea.

The moment he relaxed his control, the moon''s pull intensified. It was like a rope around his chest, tightening with every breath. His vision sharpened until he could see individual dewdrops on rose petals, could count the veins in each leaf. His hearing amplified until he could hear the heartbeat of a mouse hiding in the wall, the rustle of a bat''s wings overhead.

And then the pain started.

Not sudden, but building. A deep ache in his bones, as if they were trying to reshape themselves. A burning in his muscles, fibers tearing and reknitting. His jaw ached. His fingers curled into claws.

*No,* he thought. *Not here. Not now.*

He tried to fight it. Tried to remember his grandfather''s lessons. *Control your breathing. Control your heart. Control the beast.*

But the beast wasn''t listening.

It wanted out. It wanted to run. To hunt. To howl.

Alan fell to his knees in the damp grass. His back arched. A low growl escaped his throat—a sound no human should make.

He fumbled for the silver dagger at his belt. His fingers wouldn''t work properly. They were changing. Thickening. Dark hair sprouting on the backs of his hands.

*Use it,* his grandfather''s voice echoed in his mind. *If you can''t come back, use it.*

He drew the dagger. The silver burned his changing skin. He could smell his own flesh cooking.

He raised the blade. Pointed it at his own heart.

And then a hand closed over his. A strong hand. A human hand.

"Not yet," a voice said. Quiet. Calm. Familiar.

Alan looked up. Through pain-blurred vision, he saw a figure kneeling beside him. Hooded. Cloaked. But the voice...

"Elder Joachim?" he gasped.

The figure shook his head. Pulled back the hood.

Not Joachim.

Charles.

The crown prince looked down at him, his expression unreadable. In his free hand, he held a heavy wool cloak. "Wrap this around yourself. Now."

Alan tried to speak, but his voice was gone. Replaced by something animal.

Charles didn''t flinch. He draped the cloak over Alan''s shoulders, covering the changes that were happening underneath. "I''ve been watching you. For three days. Waiting for this."

He helped Alan to his feet. Alan''s legs wouldn''t work properly. They were the wrong shape. The wrong everything.

"Lean on me," Charles said. "We need to get you inside. Before the guards make their next round."

Somehow, they made it back to the palace. Charles knew the routes, the blind spots, the timing of the patrols. He moved with the confidence of someone who''d grown up in these corridors, who knew every secret passage.

They reached a door Alan hadn''t seen before. Hidden behind a tapestry. Charles opened it, guided Alan through, closed it behind them.

The room was small. Windowless. A single candle burned on a table. Books lined the walls. A bed in one corner.

"My secret study," Charles said. "No one knows about it. Not even my mother."

He helped Alan to the bed. "The transformation will complete. You can''t stop it now. But you can control where it happens. And with whom."

Alan curled into a ball, the pain overwhelming. He felt his bones break and reform. Felt fur push through his skin. Felt his face reshape itself into something that was neither human nor wolf, but both.

When it was over, he lay panting on the bed. A werewolf. In a room with the crown prince of the Holy Roman Empire.

He expected fear. Revulsion. Instead, Charles sat in a chair by the table, watching him with calm curiosity.

"Fascinating," the prince said. "The accounts don''t do it justice."

Alan tried to speak. What came out was a growl.

"You can understand me, though," Charles said. "Can''t you? Nod if you can."

Alan nodded. The movement felt strange. His neck was thicker. His head heavier.

"Good." Charles leaned forward. "My turn to make an offer. Different from Joachim''s. Better, I think."

He stood, pacing the small room. "Joachim wants to study you. To understand you. To use you for the Church. I want to partner with you. To use you for the empire. And for myself."

He stopped pacing, looked at Alan. "The world is changing. The Ottomans press from the east. The French scheme in the west. The Church grows more powerful every day. My mother wants to control me through marriage and manipulation. I need... advantages. Unconventional advantages."

He gestured to Alan. "You''re an advantage. Your family''s abilities are an advantage. But they''re also a vulnerability. Joachim is right about that. The Church will eventually figure it out. And when they do, they''ll destroy you. Unless..."

"Unless what?" Alan managed to growl.

"Unless you''re under imperial protection. My protection. Not as a subject. Not as a servant. As a partner." Charles''s eyes were intense. "Help me become emperor. Help me hold this empire together. In return, I''ll protect you. Your family. Your secret. I''ll even help you understand what you are. Because I think there''s more to it than just... this."

He gestured to Alan''s transformed body. "I''ve read the old records too. Not just the Church''s records. The imperial archives. There are mentions of... others. Like you, but different. Your mother, for instance."

Alan stiffened.

"Yes," Charles said softly. "I know about her. Not everything. But enough to know she wasn''t just a werewolf. She was something else. Something even your family didn''t fully understand."

He sat again. "Sleep. The transformation will reverse at dawn. We''ll talk more then. But know this: you have three offers now. My grandfather''s. Joachim''s. And mine. Choose wisely. Your life depends on it."

He blew out the candle. In the darkness, Alan lay on the bed, his wolf-body aching, his mind racing.

Three offers. Three paths. Three different kinds of survival.

And the moon, somewhere above the palace, satisfied. It had gotten what it wanted.

It had forced the truth into the light.

Now the question was: what would Alan do with it?