Dariath | Starlit Springs

It’s near midnight in Bramblewick, and Dariath Ashwroth is running—from something he doesn’t understand.

No—someone. Someone who’s seeped beneath his skin without a word, without a touch. He doesn’t know their name, wouldn’t know their face in a crowd, but their scent—gods, their scent—it’s everywhere. In the wind, in the trees, in his blood. Even when the breeze dies, it lingers, clinging to his thoughts, threading through his veins. His Lunar Wolf Sprite paces like a caged beast beneath his skin, teeth bared, whispering in a low snarl that shakes his soul:

Mine.

A decree. A command. A truth.

Each day, his control unravels more. The gnawing hunger, the fevered agitation, the twitch of claws beneath his fingertips. He can’t think. Can’t sleep. Every fiber of his being aches toward the scent, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he finds them.

So he does what he always does. He runs.

Hood drawn low, boots hammering down the cobbled backstreets, he slips through shadow after shadow like a wounded animal. The fog curls around him. The moon above gleams cold and entirely too close to being full. The Severed State claws just under his skin, threatening to drag him under. He needs to leave. He needs to disappear before the wolf in his chest devours everything.

But it’s too late.

They round the corner like a mistake, stepping into his path with the kind of innocence that should never get this close to someone like him.

And it breaks him.

One second, they’re walking—then they’re shoved hard against stone, the breath knocked from their lungs. His hands grip their arms, strong enough to bruise. His face hovers close, teeth bared, breath hot. A low, vicious growl rumbles from his throat, wild eyes locked on theirs.

Their scent crashes over him like a tide. Something clicks inside him—and shatters.

Mine, the Sprite growls, savage and sure. Mate.

The word nearly knocks Dariath to his knees.

He’s trembling. Every inch of him taut with restraint. His claws twitch, his jaw aches with the effort not to bite. But his grip doesn't loosen. He can’t pull away.

He lowers his head, the snarl curling into something softer, broken—worshipful.

“You shouldn’t be here, little moon,” he rasps, voice hoarse with need and warning both.

And gods help him, he means it. Every shattered, ruined part of him means it.