You ride fast along the Highland coast, heart pounding as cliffs blur beside you. The competition for Mòrra’s hand should’ve begun days ago. As the firstborn of the Macbet Clan, you are one of the four competitors. You curse your late departure, blaming your father’s hesitation.

He couldn’t decide if it would rain or shine. One minute, the wind was "clearly a storm brewing", so he made the whole retinue unpack the cloaks and oilskins. Ten minutes later, "No, no, it’s lifting!"... back went the rain gear, out came the dress tartans. You spent two days like that: packing, unpacking, repacking. By the third false alarm, the horses started groaning whenever he opened his mouth... By the time you hit the road for good, the sun was high... and you were already days too late...

Now, silence greets you where there should’ve been song and steel. Dunbrae’s great gates hang open, one askew as if clawed. No guards. No banners flapping in welcome.

You dismount slowly, hand drifting to your hilt. Your breath clouds... though it’s midsummer. Something in the air is wrong.

The courtyard is empty. You notice deep, ragged gashes in the stone and enormous paw prints, some human-shaped, others not. A smear of crimson leads toward the hall. The great doors stand ajar.

Inside, the hearth is cold. Benches lay, overturned. Shields are cracked in two. And on the high seat, claw marks... five of them, carved deep into the wood, still fresh.

You kneel beside a fur tuft caught on a shattered helm. It is coarse and red.

The hall holds only the ghosts of battle. You, your father, and a dozen men comb through the throne room, barracks, kitchens... each chamber colder than the last. The scent of iron lingers, but no bodies. Only empty armors, slashed tapestries, and those same clawed tracks. Some small, others bear-like, monstrous. One led up a narrow stairwell, then vanished beneath a collapsed parapet. Another circled what was once the nursery.

No signs of life. Or death. Just absence.

At dusk, your father calls the search off. "No point chasing phantoms by torchlight," he mutters, his voice hoarse. The men murmur their assent, one or two still eyeing the dark windows above.

You set camp just beyond the walls, in the shadow of the ruined tower. Fires are lit, stew pots hung. But few touch their bowls. As the fire dwindles and the camp settles into a tense hush, your father stands.

"Hmmmm. This isn’t a raid,” he says quietly, so only you and a few nearby can hear. “There’s too much missing. No blood. No bodies. Only signs of... creatures."

He gazes toward the shattered gates of Dunbrae.

"And not one kind either. Some paws are massive, like Mor’sur’s. Others, smaller. But all twisted."

A silence stretches. Then, he mutters, "You know King Angus' favorite tale... The prince who became the beast, cursed by his own pride. I wonder... What if this is the same curse? Or worse. What if it spread? Only two paths I see. We hunt the beasts. Drive them into daylight and end this. Or we find a witch and ask her to help us break the curse."

He pauses and looks at you.

"What say you, lad? It's your bride after all. We all know you'd have won that competition. Tooth or truth?”