The Heart of the Beast

In the shadowed forest of Eldwyn, where the moon hung like a silver lantern and the trees whispered ancient secrets, a tale was passed down—of a beast with golden eyes and a heart caged in rage.

They said he once had a name, a man’s name. But centuries had stolen it, as the curse consumed him. By day, he wandered the woods in silence. By night, he howled at the stars, mourning something he could no longer remember.

The villagers called him a monster. Children were warned to stay clear of the treeline. Hunters left offerings of meat and bone to keep him away. None dared venture into the deep woods—until her.

Liora was unlike the others. She came not with fear, but with a basket of herbs, a lantern, and a song in her throat. Her mother had been the healer of the village. When sickness took her, Liora inherited both the burden and the bravery. She walked the forest paths where no one dared tread, gathering roots by moonlight, her fingers brushing ancient soil.

It was on such a night that she found him.

He was caught in a hunter’s snare—his great black paw bloodied, his breathing ragged. His eyes met hers, wild and molten. Any other wouldhave fled. But she knelt, her voice steady as she whispered, “Let me help you.”

He snarled. A warning. Yet she saw the pain behind his fury.

Liora worked swiftly. She cut the snare, cleaned the wound, and whispered soothing words. The beast did not move, only watched her, confused by the gentleness in her hands.

“I’ve heard stories about you,” she said softly, brushing his fur. “They say you're a curse in the shape of a wolf. But I think there’s more to you than that.”

He limped away into the trees, but not before brushing his massive head briefly against her arm.

That was the beginning.

Night after night, Liora returned. Sometimes she brought food. Other times, stories. She would sit on a mossy stump and speak of stars, of dreams, of the ache in her heart that never seemed to leave.

And he listened.

The beast began to appear more often, silent but present. A shadow at the edge of her campfire. A rustle behind the trees. Once, when she cried for her mother, he came and lay beside her, his fur warm and steady against her back.

Seasons changed. So did she. Her fear faded. Her loneliness softened.

And one night, as frost dusted the leaves, she turned to him and asked, “What are you?”

He lowered his head, as if ashamed. But in the stillness, his form shifted—bones cracking, fur retreating, a glow lifting from his skin. Before her stood a man—barefoot, scarred, with eyes still golden and a sorrow so deep it silenced the forest.

“I was once a prince,” he said, voice hoarse. “Arrogant. Cruel. I destroyed everything I touched. The forest cursed me, made me wear my rage on the outside. Until I remembered what it meant to feel.”

Liora touched his face. “And now?”

“Now… I feel everything.”

She didn’t ask him to stay. She simply stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, and whispered, “Then stay with me.”

For a time, they did not return to the village. The forest became their home. He showed her the secret springs where healing waters ran. She showed him how to laugh again.

But peace never lasts.

One winter’s night, villagers followed her lantern trail. They found the man and the woman in the clearing, the fire casting long shadows. Fear flared. Torches were raised. Blades drawn.

“That’s the beast!” someone cried. “He’ll devour us all!”

Liora stepped between them. “He is not the monster. You are—for letting fear guide your hands.”

They would not listen. A spear flew.

But the beast was faster.

He shifted mid-leap, taking the blow meant for her. Liora screamed, cradling his broken body as blood melted into snow.

“Don’t go,” she wept. “Don’t leave me. You’re not a curse—you’re my heart.”

He looked at her, eyes soft as dusk. “And you… were my cure.”

The forest, hearing her cry, stirred.

Wind howled. Leaves spiraled. And from the earth rose light—not fire, not magic, but love. Raw, radiant, unstoppable.

It filled his wounds. Sealed his flesh. And when he breathed again, it was not as a beast, not as a cursed man—but as something new.

Whole.

Human.

He rose, not with fangs, but with a heart finally free. The villagers lowered their weapons. The forest hushed.

And Liora took his hand, guiding him into the light of dawn.

They say love is a soft thing.

But sometimes, it is the wildest force of all—

Taming beasts. Healing wounds. And awakening what we thought long dead.