The ruin's council flame sputtered low, licking shadows across stone scarred by prophecy and blood. Damon stood with Dahlia pressed close, her hand still anchored to his Scar. Their pulse throbbed as one—chain and vessel, wolf and brand. Around them, wolves, Ironsworn, and drakhen lingered in a brittle circle, their words of alliance still half-born, not yet bound.
Then the ruin groaned, and the air shivered.
A tremor ran the length of the floor, claws screeched against rock as the Conclave shifted uneasily, and Damon's pack bristled with teeth bared. Spears lowered. Shadows licked the chamber walls as if the abyss itself had drawn breath.
And through the doorway, wreathed in ash and scorched cloak, came Serathion.
His eyes burned with fever-light, twin brands of oathfire that had never dimmed. His voice struck like a blade against the chamber's silence:
"I swore she would die. And no oath binds me otherwise."
The Scar in Damon's arm convulsed violently, a serpent writhing beneath his flesh, as though the words themselves had been carved into it. Black veins pulsed in rhythm with Serathion's vow.
From the abyss below rose a whisper, older than Hunger, colder than prophecy:
"Ultherra shael draevor… oath unbroken, chain unmade… blood-for-blood…"
The chant coiled through the ruin, stirring dragon wings and wolf hearts alike.
Damon bared his teeth, wolf snarling in his chest. This was no council anymore—it was already breaking, splintering beneath the weight of a single vow.
~ He knew with brutal clarity—before their war against a god could even begin, the war council itself might shatter.
---
Serathion stepped forward, cloak dragging ash, his voice ringing like iron struck upon stone. His eyes locked not on Damon, but on Dahlia, and when he spoke, it was with a venom sharpened by oath and fire.
"She is no wolf's mate, no vessel of moon. She is the abyss made flesh. If she breathes, Veyrathuun breathes. Strike her down, and the chain may yet hold."
His words cracked through the ruin like a hammer, and the Scar in Damon's flesh writhed again, pulsing to the rhythm of that oathfire.
From the depths came whispers, slick as blood on stone:
"Coroneth drael… ultherra shael… vessel unbroken, god unbound…"
The Drakhen Conclave shifted uneasily. Myrrath Veilshard, strategist's eyes narrowed with cold calculation, muttered beneath his breath. Aelirion the Dawnspire, golden light dimmed by unease, lowered his gaze to Dahlia, as though torn between law and doom. The weight of Serathion's words pressed upon them—logic dressed in fear, prophecy veiled as truth.
Serathion's voice grew sharper, invoking the oath that bound his bloodline:
"By the Oath of Ashwing, I demand it—abandon the wolf, destroy the vessel. Only then will Shadow World breathe free."
The chamber seethed with tension. Damon's wolf surged to the surface, lips peeling back in a snarl. Dahlia's hand clung to his Scar, steady but trembling, her eyes flashing like stormlight in black glass.
Then, Veyltharion the Elderflame raised his head, the weight of centuries burning in his eyes. His voice was low thunder:
"Kill her, and the god unchains fully. Protect her, and she may bind him."
The flame in the ruin guttered, smoke coiling toward the ceiling as if to seal his words in shadow.
And so the chamber split—half leaning toward Serathion's blade, half toward Damon's defiance.
~ The council was fractured, its unity bleeding before the war against Veyrathuun could even begin.
---
The ruin quakes with silence, every oath-bound warrior caught between fang and flame. The Scar that binds Damon and me burns like molten iron beneath my skin, as if the very abyss writhes in protest of Serathion's words. His glare cuts through me like a blade, daring me to falter. But I do not.
My voice does not shake this time.
It does not splinter or whisper.
It carries.
If you would kill me, then kill me. But know this—my death frees him faster than my breath ever could.
The words hang, heavier than steel, sharper than prophecy. And at once, the ruin stirs. Shadows ripple across the broken arches like black rivers made flesh, coiling and uncoiling as if ancient ears had been waiting for me to speak.
Whispers ignite within the abyssal stone:
Ultherra drael… coroneth shael… vessel broken, god reborn.
The language coils into the marrow of those who hear it. Wolves flatten their ears, dragons lift their scaled heads, even Serathion takes a half step back, as if the ruin itself has sided with me.
The Scar between Damon and me pulses harder—alive, beating, echoing with the same rhythm as the whispers. It's not just a chain anymore. It's a voice.
The council stares, wide-eyed. They cannot deny it. Not even Serathion, who clenches his jaw until blood beads at the corner of his mouth. His oath falters in the echo of my words, for prophecy itself has answered me.
~ Damon sees that even Serathion cannot deny the truth—the prophecy itself rises in defense of Dahlia.
---
The ruin shudders as if it cannot bear the weight of so many oaths clashing at once. Aelirion' scales flare with emberlight, his voice a thunder-snarl. "End this ruse—end her, or the god devours us all!"
Zorathion moves before I can breathe, his massive wing folding down like a shield, the span of it blotting torchlight as he roars flame into the chamber's dome. "Touch her, and you burn by my fire first." Sparks rain, stone cracks, shadows scatter into frantic spirals.
Myrrath's voice cuts sharp and cold through the smoke. "Can you not hear it? The prophecy whispers because it is already too late. She is the snare, the abyss wearing flesh."
The ruin answers Myrrath with a hiss that coils like serpents in the dark:
Shaelthrun velk… darroth draem… oath against oath, blood against blood.
Spears lower. Wolves bristle. Ironsworn steel catches the trembling flame.
I feel Damon's Scar surge as if it wants to split my veins wide open, his wolf thrashing just beneath his skin. His voice is iron when he steps forward, shoulders broad as if he could bar the council itself.
"Enough!" His snarl breaks into two voices at once—man and beast. The Scar blazes like lightning across his throat, and the ruin shakes as if it knows this is the last barrier before blood.
Dragonfire trembles in Kaelthys' throat. Ironsworn blades glint. The air reeks of war, of ash, of the oath-songs unraveling.
One heartbeat more, and the council will fracture into slaughter.
~ The Council is a breath away from civil war, and Damon alone stands between their ruin.
---
The chamber quakes before any blade can strike. A thunderous crack tears through the ruin, shaking dust and fire from the stones.
Then it comes—low, vast, endless. A laugh that is not sound but collapse, rolling through marrow, splitting every oath in half.
"Fight, my vessels. Break your chains with each other's blood."
The voice ripples across the abyss, shattering the torches into sparks. The ruin groans as if the world itself bends to bow.
"Coroneth drael… shael unmake… thrunnek val drael, uthraem shael."
The words stretch into every throat, crawling down the spines of dragons, wolves, Ironsworn alike. Spears falter, wings beat in panic, even Serathion's flame stutters.
Outside, the sky bleeds. Rivers convulse backward, carrying black fire upstream. The Shadow World burns as if Veyrathuun has reached a hand through the veil.
I feel it burn inside me—his hunger, his glee. The Scar rages like molten iron, threatening to split Damon apart where he stands.
Without thinking, I clutch his throat, pressing my hand against the blazing mark. The chain between us sears through my skin, binding us together, steadying him when the god tries to tear him wide.
Two vessels, tethered by the same wound. Two hearts beating against the laughter of a god.
The ruin shakes with his joy.
"Shraem vek drael… vessels bound, vessels break… laugh with me, laugh with me."
Damon's growl cuts sharp against the laughter, ragged but unbroken. "He feeds on us. Even our rage, our oaths, our arguments—they're giving him strength."
And in the silence that follows, every faction feels it—the terrifying truth.
~ The council realizes that even their divisions are feeding the god, and silence may be the only weapon left.
---
The ruin still trembles from Veyrathuun's laughter, every oath unraveling in its echo. Dragons bristle, wolves growl, Ironsworn tremble, and my veins burn with vessel-fire.
Then Damon moves.
The Scar flares across his chest, bleeding light into his throat, into his wolf. His voice erupts with both—human and beast, oath and Scar fused into one terrible command.
"No more!"
The chamber recoils, silence slamming down as if the air itself obeys.
His growl rolls into a vow: "You want to kill each other, you do it after we kill a god. Until then—you are mine."
The Scar flashes again, chains of light crawling like living runes across the ruin. For one heartbeat, even Veyrathuun's laughter falters.
The wolves answer first, a howl so fierce it shakes dust from the rafters. The Ironsworn strike their spears against the stone, iron ringing like war-bells.
Zorathion lowers his great wing over me, his thunderous voice adding to Damon's: "Velmorr draeun… oath kept, flame unbroken."
Myrrath snarls, fire smoking between his teeth—but even he bows his horned head, a warlord yielding to another.
Serathion is last. His eyes blaze, his oath still burning like a blade unsheathed. He bares his teeth in hate—but his wings furl inward. His silence is not surrender, only deferral.
"Ulthara vek drael… oath unbroken, but delayed," he hisses.
The chamber is still. Fractured unity, but unity nonetheless. For the first time since the abyss cracked, the Council breathes as one circle instead of splintered factions.
And yet, in the silence, I still hear it—the god's heartbeat through the Scar. Louder, stronger. With every pause, every word, every ragged breath we take—Veyrathuun grows.
~ The Council survives, but the god waits, fattened on their division. The longer they hold together, the stronger the abyss stirs beneath.
---