The road to Valcruxis was a wound in the earth, a path of silence where even the wind had forgotten its voice. The fractured ridges that encircled the city rose like the ribs of a colossal, broken beast, their jagged edges clawing at a sky bruised purple with dusk. Ethan led the pack through the desolation, his boots crunching on ash-dusted stone.
Smoke lingered in the air, though no fires burned, carrying the faint tang of iron and decay. Once, Valcruxis had been the heart of a kingdom that bowed to no throne but its own, a citadel of starlit spires and unyielding pride. Now it was a graveyard of shadows, its gates shattered, its streets choked with the ghosts of a fallen age.
Helena walked at Ethan's side, her dark eyes scanning the ruins. Her leather armor was scarred from past battles, and her fingers twitched, ready to weave sigils at the first sign of trouble. Rufik, broad-shouldered and grizzled, trailed behind, his axe resting on one shoulder, his nose wrinkling as he sniffed the air. The rest of the pack, six wolves, each bearing the marks of their dual nature, moved in a loose formation, their amber eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.
"This place reeks of magic," Helena murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ancient and restless, like a storm trapped in a bottle."
Rufik spat into the dust. "Something's watching. I can feel its eyes."
Ethan said nothing, but his senses were sharp, his half-wolf blood humming with unease. The obsidian archway loomed ahead, its surface once etched with runes of power, now defaced into jagged scars. The wards that had protected Valcruxis were dead, their magic leached away like blood from a corpse. The stone beneath their feet bore the marks of fire and claw, as if the city itself had been mauled by some monstrous force.
They pressed deeper, toward the central plaza where statues of forgotten kings had once stood sentinel. Now those figures lay toppled, their marble faces gouged out, leaving hollow sockets that seemed to stare. The air grew heavier, pressing against Ethan's chest, and a faint hum pulsed at the edge of his hearing, not a sound, but a feeling, like the heartbeat of something vast and sleeping.
Then the dead came.
They erupted from alleys and vaults like floodwaters, clad in corroded armor that clinked with every jagged step. Immortal soldiers, their movements swift despite the decay, wielded rusted swords that cut as if newly forged. Their eyes glowed with a dead, greenish purpose, and their silence was more terrifying than any war cry. The pack met them head-on, and the plaza exploded into chaos.
Screams tore through the air, mingling with the clash of steel and the rip of fur and fang. Ethan fought at the center, his claws slashing through deathless flesh that sprayed black mist instead of blood. Each strike felt wrong, like cutting through smoke that reformed too quickly. The soldiers kept coming, an endless tide, their blades biting into wolf and man alike. Rufik roared as he cleaved a soldier in two, only for its halves to twitch and rise again. Helena danced through the fray, her hands weaving sigils that flared with violet light, freezing enemies mid-lunge.
"They're not raised!" she shouted over the din, her eyes rolling white as she probed their minds. "They're puppeted, controlled! Someone's pulling their strings!"
Ethan's voice cut through the clash, sharp as a blade.
"Where?"
Helena pointed to a chapel tower at the plaza's edge, its top half crumbled, its cracked bell glinting dully in the fading light. "There. A magician. Cloaked in black. Ancient. Feeding off the city's old magic."
Ethan didn't hesitate. He leapt, his half-wolf strength propelling him up the tower's broken stonework. The world blurred, cries of war, the stench of decay, the sting of sweat in his eyes, all fading as he climbed. He crashed through a shattered stained-glass window, landing in the chapel's heart. Darkness cloaked the chamber, broken only by a ring of candles flickering around a pile of bones. In the center stood the vampire magician.
He was tall, gaunt, draped in layered black robes that seemed to drink the light. His face was shadow, save for two crimson slits where eyes should be, glowing like embers in a dead fire. He didn't flinch as Ethan landed, his presence as unyielding as the stone around them.
"Half-born," the magician rasped, his voice like dry parchment tearing. "You carry both bloods, man and wolf. And yet, you stink of hesitation."
Ethan charged, claws extended, his body a blur of rage and instinct. But the magician flicked two fingers, slashing the air, and Ethan's throat opened in a thin line of blood. He staggered, gasping, one hand clutching his neck as crimson seeped through his fingers. The magician raised a hand, and an invisible force hurled Ethan into a pillar. Stone cracked. Bones cracked. Pain exploded through his ribs, but he forced himself to stand.
Then came the sword.
It was long, slightly curved, forged from a dark alloy that shimmered with an inner flame, as if molten fire ran through its veins. The magician wielded it one-handed, bringing it down toward Ethan's neck with a grace that belied its lethality.
Ethan dodged, but only just, the blade clipped the front of his hair, sending pale strands floating to the floor.
Ethan roared, his body shifting. His eyes flared amber, muscles thickened, and his claws lengthened as his wolf blood surged. He struck with all the force of his dual nature, but the magician was like smoke.
Every blow met resistance, but not flesh; every cut seemed to vanish into illusion. The magician struck back, his sword a blur of precision. A dozen slashes carved into Ethan, his shoulder, his thigh, his chest, blood painting the stone floor in arcs. His ribs cracked further, his vision blurred, one eye swelling shut.
But Ethan was no stranger to pain. He'd been forged in it, shaped by a life of battles and betrayals. He watched the magician's movements, searching for a pattern. One illusion. One moment real. The rhythm emerged, faint but there, like a pulse beneath the chaos.
The magician stepped to strike again, and Ethan twisted, taking the blade in his shoulder. Pain seared through him, but he used it, used the closeness.
With a howl, he buried his claws in the magician's gut, feeling the resistance give way to something solid. The magician gasped, a sound like a winter wind, and Ethan wrenched the sword from his hand. In one fluid motion, he drove Veydranos through the creature's chest.
The magician screamed, a sound that shattered the remaining stained-glass windows, sending shards raining down like frozen tears.
Then silence, heavy and absolute.
Ethan stood over the body, drenched in blood, breathing smoke that burned his lungs. The sword in his hand pulsed, its warmth seeping into his palm, alive in a way that made his skin crawl.
Helena limped into the chamber, her face pale but resolute. "That blade," she said, her voice trembling with awe. "It's called Veydranos, the Blade of Command."
Ethan turned,the severed fang, his breath ragged. "It almost killed me."
She nodded, stepping closer. "And now it will bind to you. If you claim it."
"How?"
She knelt, drawing a sigil in the pooled blood on the floor, her fingers steady despite her wounds. She whispered in a tongue Ethan didn't know, the air thickening until it felt like liquid. The candles flared blue, their flames dancing without wind.
"Repeat after me," she said. "By blood borne of man and moon, by fire drawn from death, I claim this blade. Let it mark me. Let it name me."
Ethan's voice cracked as he repeated the words, each syllable heavy with power.
The blade flared, its light searing his vision. Pain lanced through him, a fire that burned from his core outward, but he did not scream. His hair lightened, strand by strand, until it gleamed pale as moonlight. His eyes burned silver, sharp and unyielding.
Then it stopped.
Helena stepped back, her gaze wary but proud. "It's done. Your wolf has been remade. Not reborn, but rebranded. You are no longer only Half-Born. You are, Chosen."
Ethan sheathed the blade of command on his back, its weight a strange comfort. Outside, the last of the deathless soldiers collapsed, freed from the magician's will, their armor clattering to the ground like discarded toys.
The battle was over, but Ethan felt the truth in his bones: a war had only begun. Valcruxis was just the first step, and Veydranos was more than a weapon, it was a call to a destiny he hadn't chosen but could no longer avoid.