An order was an order, and in the Promised Land there was no place for questions. The air seemed to vibrate under the weight of the words transmitted, and the heart of the region now beat under a red alert, like an unseen drummer announcing the approach of the storm. Mobilization was no longer a mere priority — it had become a duty of life and death. Viod had sent messengers galloping to every corner, and the echo of their hooves resounded like a grave warning: "Prepare yourselves… something dreadful is coming."
In the courtyards of the fortresses and on the wind-beaten plains, King Adam Wolf's royal army awaited, ready to move at the first signal. His werewolves, with their tall silhouettes and eyes sharp as the blade of a dagger, kept the silence of soldiers who had already known the scent of blood. Every deep scar told their story: they had survived the First Cursed War and had learned that fear had a distinct fragrance, one they recognized even before the battle began.
But beyond the elite army, another force was gathering — a mixed mass, made up of werewolves torn from their peaceful lives and humans clutching weapons with trembling hands. For them, it was not about honor or glory, but about the wall of flesh and iron they had to raise around their families and their land. A hybrid mobilization, a strange blend of cold discipline and burning desperation — something even the First Cursed War had not brought.
And all of it happened under the shadow of a grave truth: the danger had reached the supreme threshold — five fangs. After the Great Pact, this meant that a ruler could reach out for aid, sending letters to the other regions. But the answer was never certain. Sometimes, allies chose to watch from a distance as others' flames consumed everything, waiting to see if the embers would reach their own gates.
Adam's second carried out the orders with brutal, almost mechanical efficiency. It did not take long before preparations were ready for the response. The target was clear and left no room for interpretation: the exiles were not to escape, and the barriers were not to yield.
Soon after, the army rushed madly toward the Valley of Death. The horses ground their hooves, raising clouds of dust, and the armor of the werewolves glinted under the pale light. Viod, riding at the front, kept his eyes fixed on the map of the Exile – a work of strategy drawn by Adam's own hand. The red lines, the division into sectors… everything was calculated so that, if the troops grouped properly, no exile could escape.
Each sector had only one entry route, and between these routes nature itself had turned into a deadly ally: deep valleys without end, where a single fall meant certain death; violent river currents dragging one into the depths; black, cold lakes impossible to cross; cliffs carved in stone; and zones suffocated by poisonous gas. Beyond them… there was no other way out. Or, at least, that was what Adam believed.
As the army advanced, the silence of the march was broken from time to time by the fluttering of wings. Each member of the Silver Legion received a message carried by a bat. The parchment, tied with a thin black string, bore the words:
"Everyone gather at the appointed place. Leave no trace behind."
Without hesitation, the legionaries changed their direction. One by one, they appeared from the shadows, their faces hidden beneath masks. The fire of a small bonfire flickered in the middle, lighting the outlines of their armor and bringing to life the cold reflections of the metal. The protocol began: the presentation of each legionary, spoken in a low voice, like an unspoken oath. Around the flames, their shadows lengthened and danced, like phantoms summoned to council.
The moonlight, cold and sharp, cut through the mist above the plain, wrapping the static silhouettes of the six legionaries. Centurio stood in the center, his white cloak fluttering lightly in the wind, like a banner of death. His mask — smooth, flawless, unbroken, but adorned with a precious stone at the forehead. The stone shone under the silver rays, and his green eyes glimmered like two sparks of poison in the darkness.
One by one, the legionaries became aware of his presence. They lined up, their colored cloaks moving in the wind like frozen flames.
"Legionary R" – Her pale pink cloak flickered like the petals of a cherry blossom under the moonlight. The silver mask, smooth as the mirror of a frozen lake, was broken only by a single thin crack — a mark like a feather under the left eye, catching light at strange angles, as if betraying movements the human eye could not perceive. As she stepped forward, the silk of her cloak hissed softly, like a whisper of death.
"Legionary N" – Two parallel lines, perfectly equidistant, cut across his mask from temple to chin, like a sign of broken balance. His black cloak fell in rigid folds, the fabric absorbing light like a black hole. His dry leather gloves creaked at the slightest movement. Beneath the mask, his breathing was so regular it seemed mechanized.
"Legionary C" – The three fissures spreading from the corner of his mouth outward resembled an exploded star — each branch had its own color in the moonlight: light blue, violet, and a dark red. His brown cloak, woven from strands of human hair, fluttered in a non-existent wind.
"Legionary T" – Four cracks furrowed his mask in violent zigzags, like lightning caught in silver. His blue cloak, dyed with pigment extracted from the eyes of the dead, seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. His right hand, bare, showed a scar shaped like an ancient rune, while his left hand, clad in a glove cut at the fingers, revealed long black nails, sharp as the claws of a beast.
"Legionary Pi" – The five cracks spiraled across his mask, creating an optical illusion — if you stared too long, they seemed to spin. His green cloak seemed woven from blades of grass regardless of the season. On the right sleeve, an embroidered motif in bark thread and dried blood depicted a tree with roots forming an unknown symbol. When he answered the call, a wet hiss escaped his mouth, though his lips did not move.
Each legionary held a perfect posture, but in different ways:
Centurio — straight, like a true leader;
R — relaxed, her head slightly tilted to the side;
N — perfectly still, more statue than man;
C — hunched with time, but dignified;
T — swayed imperceptibly, in his own rhythm;
Pi — trembling slightly, as if something cold had slid under his armor.
Centurio looked at each of them, his green eyes piercing them through the darkness.
— "Even though phase 1 of the plan was slightly delayed by Adam's reinforcements, we will continue according to plan."
His voice left no room for reply, but Legionary Pi seemed to shake his head, the cracks on his mask reflecting the light in a strange way.
— "I didn't think he would send reinforcements to the field so quickly."
— "We took care of them all!" laughed Legionary T, his voice ringing like the clanking of chains. "It was a good warm-up."
— "We will go to our posts and begin the operation in phase 2," said Legionary R, her calm feminine tone almost bored.
Centurio nodded.
— "Good, the division. Let us begin phase 2 of the plan."
A moment of silence. Then, without exchanging another word, the Silver Legion dispersed. Each stepped in a different direction, their colored cloaks vanishing into the night like liquid shadows.
Meanwhile, at the edge of the Exile, Adam's army drew near.
Void marched at the front, his small silhouette cutting the horizon. Behind him, the soldiers advanced in silence, following the moonlight as their guide. The ground beneath them seemed to breathe, as if the Exile itself knew that something was approaching.
And as the legionaries scattered, and Adam's army advanced, the calm before the storm grew heavier than any noise.
Adam Wolf's secret chamber was a tomb of buried memories. The stone wall had opened with a muffled grind, letting spill into the air the heavy smell of old metal and centuries of dust. Adam stepped inside, each step on the spiral staircase carrying him deeper into darkness, as if he were treading on his own pain. His soles stuck to the steps, heavy with the burden of the decisions he made. "I haven't set foot here in a long time," he thought, feeling a dark premonition cut through his marrow.
At the base of the staircase, a massive door, forged of black iron and faded seals, stood like a silent guardian. Adam pressed his shoulder against it, his muscles straining until the old metal groaned and gave way.
The faint torchlight flickered on the sacred armor placed upon a twisted wooden mannequin — a breastplate black as night, with deep notches like scars from forgotten battles. Beside it, on a wall of stretched leather, hung the Claw-Daggers — two curved blades, like the talons of a beast, their jagged edges like the teeth of a starving animal.
But Adam's gaze slipped past the weapons, fixing on the small chest placed in a corner. Simple, made of red wood, bound with rusted iron rings. From it spilled a palpable pain, a wave of agony that seemed to scratch the inside of his skull.
He donned the armor with precise movements, the cold plates clinging to his body like a second skin. The daggers he fastened to his belt, as if they recognized their master.
One last glance at the chest. An unspoken promise. Then he turned and stepped into the uncertain light of the corridor, ready to burn the Exile to save… Western Wallachia.
At the border of the Exile, Adam Wolf's army stopped, forming a wall of steel and will. Void stood at the front, his eyes scanning the darkness ahead.
— "Scouts, forward," he ordered, his voice sharp as a blade.
Five silhouettes detached from the ranks, each bearing on their breastplate the red mark — a glowing rune that could cry out their death across the entire Exile.
— "If they die, we will know," murmured Void, watching them vanish into the mist.
Half the army entered Sector 3 with him, stepping lightly like shadows. The other half remained at the border, a final defense for the Promised Land.
Everything seemed calm. Until… a sound tore the night.
A metallic scream, sharp as a knife in flesh, resounded from Sector 4. The red mark of the scout had just "cried her death."
Void clenched his fists until his hands turned white. A cold wave ran through his marrow — that feeling known only to those who realize they have erred, but no longer have time to correct it. Beneath his helm, his lips pressed into a thin line, the hot taste of his own folly burning his tongue. The mistake became clear to him in an instant, but now all that mattered was saving what he could.
— "A quarter of the forces, to Sector 4!" he commanded, his voice rougher than he intended.
Part of the warriors scattered, running toward the source of the sound. But it was too late.
Void remained in Sector 3, feeling the trap closing in around him. He needed all his men here.
And now, half of them were far away. The Exile laughed in the darkness.