Menelaus Lychos kept his kneeling position for some time, but nothing changed before him. He waited patiently, unmoving.
After what felt like a long stretch of silence, the air in front of him shifted. The suspended mass of lightning arcs moved slightly. A majestic werewolf emerged from the radiance, countless arcs still coiling around its body as it floated towards Menelaus.
The werewolf slowly transformed into his human form, the silhouette gliding forward until he landed gently in front of Menelaus. Residual lightning still danced across the folds of his majestic black robe. He stared down at the kneeling Menelaus with piercing green eyes and spoke in a deep voice that seemed to echo from thousands of miles away… despite standing right before him.
"Speak."
It was Erevan Brontes Lychos, King of the Werewolves.
Menelaus had served the king for nearly thirty years, yet still, a deep-rooted fear coiled in his stomach whenever he addressed him.
