The march began in silence, broken only by the groan of the world beneath us. The Shadow World no longer felt like ground but like the inside of a wound—raw, pulsing, bleeding shadowfire through every fissure. Each step was a gamble, each breath laced with ash and whispers.
Chasms yawned where plains had once been, rivers boiled backward into molten streams that stank of scorched iron. Wolves stumbled, their paws blistering on the cracked earth. Even the strongest of the Ironsworn bled from their oath-scars, thin trails of crimson running like ink across their armor. The Drakhen wheeled overhead, wings shaking, their flight paths shattered by the broken currents of shadow-wind.
I felt it then—Veyrathuun's hunger—rippling through my veins like fire that wasn't mine. Every faltering step, every soldier's cry, every heart breaking beneath this sky fed him. His voice slithered through the air, low and endless, carried by the shudder of the land:
"Ultherra drael… coroneth shael… oath unbind, soul unmake…"
The words crawled across my bones. My chest tightened, my vesselhood pulsing like it wanted to answer him.
Damon's growl cut through the despair, raw and brutal. His Scar blazed across his skin like wildfire, his wolf forcing back the whispers with sheer defiance. "Hold your lines! No cracks, no breaks. You stumble, you rise. You bleed, you fight. Nothing feeds him while I breathe."
The wolves howled, ragged but unbroken. The Ironsworn struck their spears into the ground as if to anchor themselves to what little remained. The Drakhen roared above, forcing torn skies to answer.
But the truth was clear in every glance, every twitch of fear: even the land was our enemy now.
~ And I knew then—we weren't marching across the Shadow World. We were marching through the body of a god who wanted us erased.
---
That night, we found shelter in the ribs of a fallen god-temple—stone pillars split, frescoes erased by fire, the altar cracked open like bone. The wolves circled beyond, dragons smoldered high above, the Ironsworn bled quietly into earth. But inside the ruin, it was only Damon and me, shadows flickering from the last coils of dragonfire. His hands shook, not with fear but with fury at a world unraveling. And when he dragged me against the broken altar, I didn't resist.
There were no words of comfort. No vows. Only the crash of his mouth against mine, his Scar blazing hot against my skin, branding me deeper than the vessel ever had. My back scraped the stone, my nails clawed flesh, our bodies colliding with desperate violence. This wasn't love as mortals sang it—it was rebellion, savage and unholy, as if our joining could defy the god splitting the sky.
I bit his shoulder until blood rose. He thrust harder, faster, until my cry became an echo through the desecrated chamber. Stone trembled, dust fell like ash upon us, the ruin itself shuddering with our defiance.
His breath seared against my ear. "I will not let the god have you. I will mark you until nothing remains but us."
I arched into him, vessel quiet for the first time in days, his body silencing the hunger that gnawed inside me. And when I gasped his name, when I came undone against the ruined altar, the vessel did not answer—the only time I was purely, entirely myself.
From the cracks of the altar, old glyphs stirred—dim embers of a forgotten tongue, whispering as if our release had roused them:
"Veyrathuun ul'kaar, zhaelor im'kaan… kaelthas veyr, saelor veyr, kaelthas veyr…"
(The god's breath feeds, the god's abyss takes… bind or burn, bind or burn, bind or burn…)
Damon roared against my throat, thrusting deep, his climax spilling with a violence that felt like defiance of fate itself. The altar cracked further, but he held me there, panting, forehead pressed to mine, sweat mingling with dust and blood.
For that moment—ragged, raw, undone—we weren't vessel or Alpha, prophecy or prey. We were only Damon and Dahlia, lovers against the end of all things.
But outside, the world still broke. And in the silence that followed, I heard the faintest echo of the god's laughter.
~ Their love is rebellion—raw, reckless, defiant—but every stolen moment risks breaking them further when the god calls.
---
Morning bled gray across the ruin. The taste of ash still clung to my tongue, Damon's heat fading from my body as the howl of wolves tore the silence apart. Scouts returned—eyes wide, breath ragged, armor slick with shadow-rot.
"They march. A host. Hollow Order zealots. Chained wraiths pulled as weapons."
The words turned the ruin colder than night. Beyond the ridge, the air was already trembling with their chants, carried across plains split and bleeding shadowfire.
"Veyrathuun-kael, Veyrathuun-kael, saelor ul'kaan…"
(The god rises, the god rises, all shall be swallowed…)
We gathered the Council around what remained of a shattered column. Kaelthys's dragon-eyes burned like twin suns. "We strike first. Burn them before their wraiths break free." His voice cracked flame across stone.
But Myrrath's hollow gaze was colder. "Every death feeds him. Every clash fattens the abyss. Strike—and you offer him feast." His staff trembled with a whisper not his own:
"Irelos veyr, irelos veyr… blood to the pit, breath to the god…"
The wolves shifted uneasily, oath-scars blazing faint red against their throats. Even they felt the pull of the abyss, whispers gnawing like teeth in their skulls.
I felt it too—hunger licking through vessel-blood, the urge to break, to give. Damon's hand on mine steadied the tremor. His voice cut through the Council's clamor, iron and absolute.
"We don't run." His Scar flared, shadowfire coursing like a second sun through his veins. "We strike. Not as prey. Not as fodder. But as war."
For a moment, silence gripped us all. Then Kaelthys's grin widened, savage as his kind. The wolves raised their spears, Ironsworn beat steel against shield, and above, dragons unfurled broken wings to the wind.
The ground shook with the war-host approaching—zealots howling, wraiths wailing as chains rattled like bone.
The next clash would not be ambush. Not defense.
It would be slaughter, wide and unrestrained.
~ The next clash won't be ambush or defense—it will be open slaughter.
---
The Council prepared for slaughter, but Damon pulled me aside into the gutted nave of the broken temple. The chained wraiths thrashed in their bonds, eyes like void suns, mouths opening on endless screams that bent the air itself.
This was no strategy council—this was my trial.
If I could not bend the god's shadow into runes, then every clash ahead would end with us devoured.
The wolves circled, muttering oaths under their breath. Kaelthys spat flame in warning. Myrrath only watched, black staff trembling with echoes. Damon placed me before the nearest wraith. Its chains rattled, dripping ichor like melted glass.
"Begin," he said, voice iron.
I raised my hands, the vessel-mark beneath my skin flaring with silver veins that almost immediately went dark. Words pressed into my skull, a thousand voices chanting through marrow:
"Saelor un'khaal, drael voruth, veshaen shael'kor…"
(Open the chain, drink the vessel, devour the soul…)
The shadow surged into me like poison fire. My veins blackened. Breath seized. My knees buckled as its hunger clawed up my throat.
Damon's arms locked around me, Scar blazing against my spine. His voice thundered against my skin, a counter-chant burning hotter than flame:
"Coroneth drael, vessel chain, Scar unbreak!"
(Chain bound, vessel sealed, Scar unbroken!)
The clash of voices rattled the shattered walls. The wraith's scream cut short. My body convulsed—half vessel, half void—and then the runes carved themselves into the air before me, burning circles of silver and black.
Chains of light snapped shut around the creature. The wraith fell silent, bound—not destroyed, not devoured—chained by my hand.
Gasps rose from the Council. For a heartbeat, hope flickered in their eyes. Proof. Veyrathuun's shadow could be touched, chained.
But my veins still throbbed black beneath my skin. Damon's Scar pulsed with me, his strength poured into mine. He whispered against my temple, low, fierce: "I will always anchor you."
I wanted to believe him. But deep inside, the whispers had not vanished. They coiled, hungry, patient. Every success, I knew, pulled me closer to control—
and closer to ruin.
~ Every success brings her closer to control—but closer to destruction too.
---
The first horn split the night. Then the Hollow Vanguard came.
Zealots by the thousands, faces smeared in ash and blood, dragging their chained wraiths like living banners. They howled prayers that shook the sky itself:
"Veyrathuun! Veyrathuun coroneth drael!"
(Veyrathuun! Veyrathuun, chain undone!)
The wolves surged forward, a living tide of fur and fang. Ironsworn slammed spears into the ground, their oaths flaring white-hot even as blood slicked down their arms. Dragons wheeled above, unleashing firestorms that split the night in molten rivers.
The clash was thunder and shadowfire. Hollow zealots carved their own flesh open, blades sinking willingly into their ribs, each wound feeding the abyss. Their laughter rose over the screams of the dying. "Unchain shael! Devour coroneth!" (Unbind the soul! Devour the chain!)
The first wraith snapped its chains and lunged. I raised my hand—vesselhood flared, burning circles of silver carved into the air. Damon's Scar roared beside me, black fire spilling from his chest as he tore the creature's shadow to shreds.
But more came. Always more.
Damon seized my hand, our powers colliding. Scar and vesselhood pulsed as one—silver and black fusing into a single blinding flame. We unleashed it together, a torrent of burning light that obliterated three wraiths in a single scream. Their shadows disintegrated, howling into nothing.
The battlefield froze, stunned by the brilliance of it. Wolves raised their heads and howled. Ironsworn struck their spears into the ground in thunderous rhythm. Dragons roared their triumph.
But inside me, I felt the cost. My veins screamed. My body shook like it was being torn in two. Damon staggered, his Scar split wide, bleeding shadowfire.
I clung to him, breath ragged. He pressed his forehead to mine, whispering the words through clenched teeth:
"Coroneth drael… Scar unbreak… vessel endure…"
(Chain bound… Scar unbroken… vessel endure…)
I believed him for only a heartbeat—because already I felt the god's hunger curling in the edges of our bond, devouring every victory.
The Hollow Vanguard pressed closer, fearless, feeding their deity with each drop of blood spilled. And as Damon dragged me upright, I realized the truth—
Each victory was a loss. Each strike was a bargain with the abyss.
~ Each victory feels like loss, each strike a bargain with the abyss.
---
The battlefield burned in silence once the last zealot fell. Wolves slumped against bloodied earth, Ironsworn leaned on shattered spears, dragons wheeled above trailing smoke from torn wings. The air reeked of ash and shadowfire.
I staggered to my feet, Damon's arm bracing me. My vesselhood still thrummed, veins burning from the last surge. Around us, the Council gathered—faces hollow, eyes dark. Victory had been earned, but the taste of it was ash on every tongue.
Then the smoke parted.
Ahead lay a city—not living, not whole, but split in half, its spires twisted into black flame that clawed at the bleeding sky. Walls of molten shadow encircled it, and above, blotting out the horizon, loomed a presence so vast it could not be measured.
Veyrathuun.
Not seen, but felt. His shadow stretched across every breath, pressing down on us until even the dragons faltered in their flight. The god's voice rolled across the broken plain, vast and unrelenting:
"Coroneth drael… shael unchain… Velmorr unmade…"
(Chain undone… soul unbound… the world unmade…)
My knees buckled. My lungs froze. I clutched Damon's chest, trembling but refusing to bow. My voice was a whisper, ragged but resolute: "We march into him."
Damon's Scar flared, black fire licking his throat and chest, blazing like a star against the abyss. His voice was iron and fire, echoing across the ranks: "Then we don't stop marching."
The Council raised weapons, voices uniting in defiance, their chant ragged but burning:
"Velmorr standra! Coroneth chain! Veyrathuun shall fall!"
(Velmorr stands! Chains hold! Veyrathuun shall fall!)
I lifted my gaze toward the city of flame and shadow. My blood still trembled, my heart still screamed with fear—but beneath it, a single truth pulsed.
The march into apocalypse had truly begun.
---
~ The Council sets its eyes on the god's shadowed city. The march into apocalypse has truly begun.
---