The forest had always been a place of sanctuary.
Its canopy of ancient oaks shielded the ground in perpetual twilight, the wind carried the scent of pine and moss, and streams whispered over stones as though singing lullabies to the earth. Wolves had roamed these woods for centuries, their pawprints etched into the very soil. To Dominic, it had always been home, the untamed heart of his pack's dominion.
But on that morning, the forest shivered.
Birds fled in clouds, startled from branches. The streams ran silent. Even the leaves seemed to hold their breath. For intruders had entered the sacred woods—not hunters, not villagers, but something far darker.
The Inquisitors.
They moved without sound, their black armor drinking the dawn light, their silver masks glinting like skulls. At their head rode the High Inquisitor, a tall figure whose voice had condemned kings and burned prophets. His armor bore no symbol, only scripture etched so finely into the steel that it seemed alive, writhing when caught by the sun.
Behind them trailed wagons. Chains rattled softly with each turn of the wheels, though nothing inside moved. Wrapped in cloth, sealed in wax, the Seraph Blades waited.
Weapons not meant for mortal hands.
Weapons designed to kill not only flesh but soul.
The wolves sensed them first.
From the shadows of the underbrush, yellow eyes blinked open. Growls rippled through the ferns as scouts returned to the den, warning the Alpha.
Dominic rose from where he crouched near the mouth of the cave. His frame towered in the dim firelight, muscles taut beneath scars, golden eyes gleaming with an edge of feral fury.
"They are here," he said.
Seraphina stood beside him, her hair unbound, her wrists still bearing the bruises of chains but her spirit free. The melody of her song stirred at her lips, though she bit it back, holding it until he commanded.
"How many?" she whispered.
"A dozen, perhaps more," Dominic replied. His gaze did not waver, fixed on the horizon beyond the trees. "But they are not men. They are shadows clothed in steel. To underestimate them is death."
The wolves stirred restlessly, their bodies shifting between flesh and fur, claws scratching at the dirt. Their growls rose into a chorus of fury.
"Alpha," one growled, baring sharp teeth. "Let us strike first. Let us tear their throats before they enter our den."
Dominic lifted a hand, silencing them. "No. This is not the hunt. This is war. And war is not won by hunger, but by patience."
He turned to Seraphina. "You will stay behind me. If they bring the Blades, your song may be the only shield we have."
Her heart pounded. She nodded, though fear crept into her veins.
Dominic's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Do not fear them, little siren. Fear belongs to them."
---
The Inquisitors reached the clearing.
They moved as one, their formation precise, a black wedge cutting into the woods. Not a twig snapped beneath their boots, not a breath escaped their masks. They carried no torches, yet the forest around them seemed to darken.
The High Inquisitor raised his hand. The column halted.
He knelt, pressing his gauntlet into the soil. When he rose, the earth smoked faintly where he had touched it.
"They are here," he said, his voice echoing strangely, as though layered with others.
The Inquisitors drew their weapons—relics carved with runes, blades dipped in angel-fire, chains tipped with hooks that shimmered with unnatural light.
Then they began to chant.
Low at first, then rising, their voices merged into one droning hymn. The air thickened. The trees groaned as if in pain. Shadows deepened, and a pressure fell across the clearing like a hand gripping every throat.
And then, the wagons opened.
Cloth peeled back. Wax seals cracked.
The Seraph Blades emerged.
Each one was long and slender, forged of silver that gleamed like starlight, etched with scripture so sharp it cut the eyes to look upon. The air hissed when the blades were unsheathed, as though even the world recoiled.
Dominic stepped into the clearing then, wolves fanning out behind him, their bodies half-shifted, eyes blazing.
The hymn faltered for a heartbeat. Even Inquisitors could feel fear.
The Alpha stood before them, taller than any man, every movement promising violence.
"Leave my forest," Dominic growled, his voice carrying like thunder. "Return to your gilded cage and pray to your dead gods. This ground does not belong to you."
The High Inquisitor tilted his head. His mask reflected the Alpha's golden eyes, a predator staring at its mirror.
"You speak of belonging," the Inquisitor said. "But beasts cannot claim dominion. The forest, the rivers, the earth itself—these are gifts of the Divine. You are nothing but corruption upon them. And corruption must be burned away."
He lifted his blade. "Sirens do not belong to wolves."
Seraphina stiffened behind Dominic, her fingers curling.
Dominic's lip curled, revealing a flash of fang. "Then come and try to take her."
The war began.
---
The first clash was thunder.
Wolves surged forward, a wall of muscle and teeth, their howls splitting the air. The Inquisitors answered with fire—torches lit without flame, white as the sun, searing through fur and flesh. Blades met claws in an explosion of sparks.
Dominic leapt, his body shifting mid-air, claws raking across armor. One Inquisitor fell, mask shattered, blood spraying the ground. But another struck him with a chain, the hook burying into his shoulder. The chain burned, smoke rising from his flesh. Dominic roared, ripping it free and slamming the man into a tree so hard the trunk split.
Seraphina's breath caught. Instinct overtook fear. Her song burst forth.
It began soft, a trembling note, but it grew—rising, spiraling, weaving through the chaos. Wolves howled in answer, their movements quicker, their wounds closing as the melody wrapped around them.
The Inquisitors staggered, their strikes faltering as the song invaded their minds, stirring hesitation.
But the High Inquisitor only raised his blade higher, chanting louder, drowning her notes beneath his hymn.
The clash of music and voice shook the clearing. Trees bent, roots split.
Seraphina pushed harder, her melody piercing higher, her throat raw. For a moment, the hymn cracked. One Inquisitor dropped his weapon, clutching his head as blood leaked from his ears.
Dominic seized the opening. He tore through the man, blood spraying across leaves.
But victory was fleeting.
The High Inquisitor thrust his Seraph Blade forward. The scripture along its length glowed, and the light struck Dominic like a spear. He staggered, his roar breaking, smoke rising from his chest where the blade had not even touched.
Seraphina screamed. Her song faltered.
The Inquisitor turned his masked face toward her.
"Ah," he said, his voice like a knife. "The Siren. The false Dawn."
He stepped forward. "You belong on the altar. Not in the arms of a beast."
Dominic lunged, but the Seraph Blade flared, halting him mid-stride, burning his flesh with its light.
Seraphina's heart pounded. She could feel the chains again, the cold altar, the endless hymns forced through her lips.
No.
Never again.
Her voice exploded.
It was no longer a song but a scream—a wail so raw and powerful it shattered branches and split stone. The Inquisitors staggered, their masks cracking, their blades trembling in their hands. Wolves rallied, their howls rising in harmony with her cry.
Even Dominic felt it—power surging through him, burning away the fire of the Seraph Blade. He roared, leaping forward, claws tearing into the High Inquisitor. Armor split. Blood spilled.
The hymn broke.
For the first time, fear touched the masked faces.
The Inquisitors began to fall back.
But as they retreated, the High Inquisitor laughed, blood dripping from his lips.
"This is only the beginning," he hissed. "The Church has awakened. The Blades will not stop. You may win the forest, Alpha, but we will claim the world."
Dominic tore out his throat.
Silence fell.
The wolves stood panting, their fur slick with blood, their eyes wild. Corpses littered the clearing, armor cracked, masks shattered. The Seraph Blades lay among the dead, their scripture still glowing faintly, hungry for more.
Seraphina dropped to her knees, her voice spent, tears streaming down her face.
Dominic came to her, his body battered, his chest burned, but his golden eyes fierce. He lifted her chin.
"You see?" he whispered, voice rough. "Together, nothing stops us."
But in the distance, faintly carried on the wind, came the sound of more bells.
Not of mourning.
Of summoning.
The Church was not finished.
It had only begun.