Chapter 14 – The Warning
Snow crunched under slow, deliberate footsteps.
Morda stepped into the forest clearing, his eyes locking on the headless corpse sprawled in the blood-soaked snow. A few paces away, Dreadmaul's severed head lay half-buried in red slush, its frozen expression still wearing a faint, broken smile.
For a moment, Morda said nothing.Then the air split.
A wave of murderous aura exploded from him, bending the trees, sending loose snow into the air like a storm. The ground quaked beneath his boots.
"You…" he growled, eyes snapping toward the lone figure standing among the corpses.
Rigorus.!!!
No shirt. No shoes. No aura.Only steam rising red from his battered frame, the snow melting in a circle around him. His face was caked in blood, his hair matted and dripping. In one hand, he held White Fang loosely, its edge still wet.
He didn't move.He didn't need to.
From a distance, he looked unstoppable — a predator in human skin, daring anything to come closer. Yet, beneath that mask of divine menace, his body trembled almost imperceptibly, every muscle screaming in exhaustion. One more push, and he would have fallen where he stood… but not even Morda could see it.
Rigorus simply raised his head and looked at him.
It was enough.
To a civilian, that stare alone would have been death — their heart stopping from sheer pressure. To Morda, it was worse. It was a warning.
One step forward, and you die.
Morda froze. His aura faltered.
He stepped back.Then again.
And then he ran.
Snow whipped past him as he tore through the forest, not stopping, not looking back. He ran like a child chased by a nightmare, only slowing when the Draeven mountains were far behind him.
When he finally stopped, his breath came in ragged bursts, shame burning in his chest.
How could I run? How could I leave my brother's body?
His hands shook. What will Father say? What will Father do? Dreadmaul was the strongest of us all… not the smartest, but the strongest.
Morda gritted his teeth and turned his gaze toward the horizon. Father will know. Father always knows.
Back in the Draeven lands, the forest was silent save for the crunch of boots.
A squad of Draeven soldiers pushed through the trees, weapons ready. They had followed the trail of destruction until they found it — the clearing.
The smell hit them first — not the clean, metallic bite of fresh blood, but the thick, clinging stench of slaughter. Steam curled from crimson patches where the snow had melted, as if the earth itself was still trying to breathe out the violence it had absorbed. Black shapes lay scattered in the drifts, some twisted beyond human shape. Even the wind had gone still, as though the forest feared to disturb the man who stood at its heart.
And froze.
Blood was everywhere. Snow, trees, even the air felt stained with it. And in the middle of the carnage stood a man — not moving, not speaking, but standing.
Rigorus.
His head hung low, hair shadowing his face. His body swayed slightly, yet the sword in his hand never dipped.
One soldier stepped forward, cautious. "Saint…?"
The blade moved.
Steel sang as White Fang lashed out in a perfect killing arc — so fast the soldier didn't even have time to scream.
Clang!
A second blade intercepted the strike. Maazra.
The old warrior's voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. "He's unconscious."
The soldiers stared, confused.
Maazra stepped closer, pressing his blade against Rigorus's to guide it down. "This is instinct. The body of a man who fought with everything he had… still protecting itself even after the mind has fallen silent."
As the sword slipped from Rigorus's grasp, his knees buckled. Maazra caught him before he could hit the ground.
"Burn the body of Dreadmaul," Maazra ordered, his voice brooking no argument. "And return to the clan hall."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed.
Maazra lifted Rigorus onto his shoulder, carrying him toward the Draeven's main hall. Snow fell in quiet flakes around them, covering the red of the battlefield — but not erasing it.