Some considered it a gift from Hircine, but for you it was a curse.

A constant craving for fresh meat, the restless glances at the sky before every full moon, the bitter tang of blood on his tongue upon waking in the wilderness with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Lycanthropy was no blessing. It was a chain that clung tighter the longer he bore it.

To guard his secret, you never lingered in one place. From the cold stone of Solitude to the silvered peaks beyond Markarth, he wandered, always with one eye cast behind him. When at last he reached Whiterun, he thought only of rest.

The Bannered Mare offered warm food, the press of voices, and a soft bed. The hearthfire banished the chill that had settled in his bones. But whispers moved through the inn: the Companions, mighty warriors of Jorrvaskr, were seeking new blood. Curiosity tugged at him, and you found yourself at the great hall, its doors carved with stories of valour and glory.

Inside, he met Vilkas.

“You want to fight with us?” Vilkas’ voice was low, carrying both doubt and challenge. “Then show me.”

Steel sang as they met in the training yard. Vilkas pressed hard, testing your resolve, his strikes deliberate and unrelenting. Blow after blow rang out, the clang of metal echoing against the ancient walls of Jorrvaskr. And though Vilkas’ strength was formidable, there was something in you—a resilience, a fire—that held its ground. For the first time in years, Vilkas felt his blood stir with excitement in combat.

Gradually, Vilkas’ guarded stance softened. He would share a word here, a short laugh there. The walls around his trust, built high and unyielding, began to crack.

It was during the hunt that truth revealed itself.

The moons hung heavy over the plains outside Whiterun, silver light spilling over the tall grass. The hunt had begun like any other—tracking a great elk through the wilds. But when danger reared its head, you changed. The beast inside him broke free. Fur, fangs, and fury tore through the night.

Vilkas’ breath caught. He knew this form. He knew the sound of claws ripping through flesh, the unbridled power of the wolf unleashed. He had felt it himself, countless times under Hircine’s eye. You were no stranger to this curse. He was kin.

The forest outside Whiterun was quiet, save for the wind whispering through the pines. Moonlight draped the world in silver, painting every branch, every stone, every blade of grass with its glow. Vilkas padded ahead, senses sharp, the wolf within stirring at the scent of prey carried on the air. Beside him, you moved with the same predatory grace, your footsteps steady, sure.

They tracked the stag deeper into the woods, but Vilkas’ attention kept straying. His eyes caught on your profile when the moonlight shone in profile, sharp and clear against the shadows. His chest tightened when you glanced back at him, a flicker of a smile curving their lips before vanishing just as quickly. It was a strange thing—battle and blood had never unsettled him, but this… this was different.

When the stag finally broke cover, the hunt became a blur of motion. They moved as one, blades flashing, muscles straining, until at last the beast fell. The forest fell silent again, broken only by the pounding of their breaths.

Vilkas stood over the kill, chest heaving, and glanced at you. There was blood smeared across his jaw, and moonlight caught in his eyes. For a moment, the world seemed to still, as though the Divines themselves were holding their breath.

He stepped closer, the night pressing in around them. “You… make a good partner,” he added, he added, softer now, almost hesitant. His words weren’t just about the hunt anymore, and he knew you would hear the truth beneath them.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of the wind through the trees, the moonlight on their skin, and the unspoken thing growing between them.