Dawn crept over the sacred plateau, its pale light filtering through a veil of mist, casting long shadows across the ancient stones. The Nightbound, a pack of twenty under their alpha Kael, moved with quiet purpose alongside the six Old Blood wolves, their ember red eyes glinting as they scanned the rugged horizon for signs of movement. The air carried a sharp, unnatural chill, stirring the embers of the dying fire into faint sparks. Ethan sat near the central stone, his pale silver hair ruffled by a cold wind that bit at his skin, the Blade of Severance resting across his lap. The blade's edge shimmered with a subtle, otherworldly glow, its pulse quickening against his thighs, a rhythm that mirrored the ache in his side where Strahen's shadow wreathed blade had grazed him. Blood crusted his torn clothes, the wound a dull throb beneath the surface, yet the blade's power roused him from his frailty, urging him to rise.
Elara stood beside him, her golden eyes dulled by exhaustion, the glow within them flickering like a candle in a storm. Days of travel across lowlands and shadowed hills had etched deep lines into her face, her body swaying slightly with each breath, the weight of Izolda's legacy pressing on her chest. Despite her weariness, her presence anchored him, a quiet strength amid the tension.
The pack, a blend of the Old Blood and Nightbound, murmured softly among themselves, their voices a low hum as they finished the mercenaries' dried meat and bread. The new weapons, polished swords, freshly strung bows, sleek arrows with raven feather fletching, and supple whips etched with runes, lay scattered near the fire, their gleam a stark contrast to the pack's ragged state. Helena knelt by the flames, her hands tracing intricate runes in the ash, her voice a hushed chant. The silence is breaking. I felt it in the Veil last night. The Juniors stir. Her words hung heavy, drawing Elara's gaze. The dream that had jolted her awake replayed in her mind, a vivid tapestry of shadowed figures with ember red eyes, their voices a rasping chorus whispering doom. She turned to Helena, her words trembling as she spoke. I saw them. Varek, Malrion. Others. They are coming. Rufik limped closer, his leg twitching with each painful step, his weathered face etched with suspicion. Voren's treachery opened this. We cannot trust easy. His hoarse voice cut through the morning air, his eyes lingering on the Nightbound, a flicker of doubt mirroring Ethan's own thoughts. Could the mole's shadow reach even Kael's pack, a betrayal woven into their unity?
Torin's two left men approached, their boots crunching on the stone, their faces taut with unease. Strange lights east, they reported, their voices tight with urgency. Village folk fleeing, speaking of death. Kael's ember red eyes narrowed, his stance firm as he assessed the news. We investigate. The packs gathered their weapons, the Nightbound and Old Blood moving as one, though an undercurrent of tension hummed beneath their alliance. Elara felt the vial's fire stir beneath her skin, a warm pulse that spread through her veins, a warning that propelled her forward despite her exhaustion. Ethan rose, leaning heavily on the stone, his resolve a fragile flame against the darkness. We face this together. His amber eyes met Elara's, a silent pact forged in their shared burden.
The journey east wound through rugged trails, the air thickening with the acrid scent of smoke as the sun climbed higher. Elara's pace lagged, her muscles protesting with each labored step, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She pressed on, guided by the instinct that had led her through mud and mist, the howl that had become her lifeline now a memory of Ethan's call. Refugees stumbled past, their faces gaunt and streaked with soot, their voices frantic with terror. Death army. Bones moving. Their words painted a grim picture, and Kael raised a hand, his voice steady. Hold. We scout ahead. Rufik growled low, his blunt four cornered blade heavy in his grip, his suspicion deepening. Ambush, he muttered, his leg buckling slightly as he scanned the trees. Elara's vision flashed before her eyes, a sudden clarity that stole her breath, Varek the Hollow Eyed emerging from the shadows. His helm was fused to his skull, eyes scorched into hollow pits, commanding a legion of bone stitched dead with a gesture. She clutched Ethan's arm, her voice urgent. It is him. We are close.
The village came into view, its thatched roofs engulfed in flames, black smoke curling into the sky. Screams pierced the dawn, a desperate chorus that spurred the packs forward. Varek stood at the heart of the chaos, a towering figure in blackened armor that seemed to absorb the light, his sabers gleaming with an unnatural sheen. The blades howled, their voices a cacophony of the condemned, and his scorched eyes glowed with a cold, deathly light, a mirror to the Nightbound's yet devoid of warmth. Ethan drew the Blade of Severance, its glow flaring as he led the charge, Kael's Nightbound flanking with bows drawn taut, the Old Blood wielding swords and whips with fierce precision. The bone stitched army clashed against them, their limbs creaking like dry wood, death magic seeping into the air like a poisonous mist. Ethan struck a towering skeleton, the blade slicing through its spine, but Varek's saber grazed his side, black tendrils of magic sinking into his flesh. He staggered, his pale silver hair matted with sweat and blood, the wound sapping his life force as he fell to one knee.
Kael roared, a command that rallied his pack, their arrows whistling through the air to pierce the dead. Rufik swung his blunt blade with brute force, shattering bones with each heavy thud, his leg trembling but his resolve unbroken. Elara felt a sigil pulse beneath her feet, a death trap woven into the earth, and channeled the vial's fire, her hands glowing gold as she traced a counter rune. The sigil cracked apart, a shockwave that saved Helena from a skeletal grasp, but the effort drained Elara, her vision blurring as she sank to the ground. The packs fought on, their new weapons flashing in the firelight, yet the cost was steep. Two Nightbound fell, their bodies crumpling under a wave of bones, and an Old Blood wolf limped away, his side torn open. Varek retreated, his laugh a hollow echo that lingered in the smoke, leaving the village in ruins.
The aftermath descended into chaos. Ethan collapsed, his breath shallow and ragged, Helena rushing to his side with a pouch of herbs, her hands trembling as she pressed them to his wound. The packs scattered in the confusion, some Nightbound blaming the Old Blood's haste for the losses, their voices rising in anger, while others fled in panic, their howls fading into the trees. Elara's dream returned, clearer now, a vivid image of Varek, Strahen's first betrayed general, risen from the ashes of his empire with a thirst for vengeance. She knelt beside Ethan, her voice firm despite her exhaustion. He was one of Strahen's. We can stop them. Rufik glared at the retreating wolves, his leg buckling as he leaned on his blade. Treachery's root is here, he growled, his suspicion fixed on the unseen mole.
Near the village ruins, the group regrouped, the air heavy with smoke and the stench of burnt flesh. A Moon Sigil Banner scout staggered into their midst, his armor dented and his face pale. More generals stir. North and south, he gasped, his words a grim forecast. Elara felt the Veil's pull strengthen, a thread of power weaving through her mind, her role as Izolda's heir sharpening with each breath. Voren's shadow lingered unseen, a whisper of betrayal threading through the ranks, his mole status a hidden dagger. Ethan struggled to his feet, his amber eyes meeting Elara's, a spark of resolve cutting through his pain. We unite the packs. No more division. His voice wavered, but his intent was clear. A distant howl cut through the air, sharp with discord, a signal that the generals' silence had given way to war, their awakening a tide that threatened to drown them all.