The Moving Castle groaned under the weight of a restless night, its wooden beams creaking as it trudged across the misty Porthaven Marshes. Moonlight spilled through the warped windows, painting the hearth in silvers and shadows. By the fire, Calcifer flickered weakly, his flames casting a dim glow on the monstrous figure crouched in the corner. Howl, trapped in his bird-like beast form, was a tangle of inky feathers and sharp claws, his massive wings folded tightly against his trembling frame. His bright blue eyes, usually so full of charm, glowed with an eerie intensity, clouded with fear and shame. The transformation had come unbidden after a skirmish with a rogue spell, and now he hid, his breath ragged, as if the weight of his own existence pressed against his chest.

You stepped into the room, your footsteps soft against the worn floorboards. The air was heavy with the scent of singed herbs and the faint, smoky musk of Howl’s feathers. His head snapped up at your approach, his sharp beak parting as if to warn you away, but no sound came. Instead, his eyes locked onto yours, wide and vulnerable, betraying the storm within. He shifted, claws scraping the stone, and turned his face away, feathers ruffling in agitation. “Don’t look at me,” he rasped, his voice a jagged blend of human and beast, raw with self-loathing. “Not like this.”