The first sunlight had not yet burned away the smoke rising from the ruined abbey when the bells of the Citadel began to toll. They did not ring for prayer. They did not ring for celebration. They rang for war.
The High Cardinal stood in the center of the great hall, scarlet robes sweeping across the marble like spilled blood. Around him, bishops knelt, Inquisitors bowed, crusaders in blackened armor pounded their fists against their chests. The Cardinal's voice cracked through the vaulted chamber like thunder.
"The wolves desecrated holy ground. The Siren has spat into the chalice of the Almighty. They believe themselves untouchable in their shadowed woods." His eyes gleamed like flint, his lips curling in a cruel smile. "Then we will burn their woods. We will salt their rivers. We will bring God's fire to their flesh."
A roar answered him—steel striking steel, men shouting oaths, banners flaring as soldiers surged forward to prepare.
The Crusade had begun.
---
Far from the Citadel, the wolves returned to their hidden valley, weary and scarred from the night's slaughter. The victory was theirs, yet it felt like ashes in their mouths. Too many had fallen. The scent of blood clung too heavily to the earth.
Dominic stood on a high ridge, his body bare and blood-streaked, arms crossed as he stared at the rising sun. The black wolf still prowled restless beneath his skin, his claws itching for more, his teeth aching to rip. He had tasted vengeance, but vengeance was never sated.
Behind him, Seraphina emerged from the river, her hair streaming wet, clinging to her back like strands of molten silver. The water licked her ankles, faintly glowing with her lingering magic. Her eyes were heavy, dark with what she had done. Her song had leveled holy stone. Her voice had slain men. She could still feel the echoes reverberating inside her chest.
"You're restless," she said softly, climbing the slope to stand beside him.
Dominic didn't look at her, but his voice came rough. "I feel them stirring. The Church won't lick its wounds. They'll come in force."
Seraphina's lips pressed together. "Then we prepare."
His head snapped toward her. The golden blaze in his eyes was not just wolf—it was Alpha, commander, predator. "Prepare?" His voice rumbled. "You saw what your song did to the abbey. You know what they'll bring now. Crusaders with fire, Inquisitors with chains, blades blessed to drink wolf-blood. No preparation will be enough."
Seraphina's gaze didn't falter. Her wet hand lifted, pressing against his chest, right over the hammering heart. "Then we do not prepare for defense." Her voice dropped to a whisper like a tide pulling against stone. "We prepare for annihilation."
For a moment the Alpha simply stared at her, and then his lips curved in a smile that was all wolf, all teeth.
---
The days that followed were madness. Wolves ran the forests, gathering every scattered pack that still lived. Old grudges were thrown aside, blood feuds silenced, because there was no longer room for division. Dominic stood in the center of the gathering circle, declaring in a voice that shook the trees, "We stand as one pack, or we die as broken beasts."
The wolves answered with a howl that rose like a storm.
Meanwhile, Seraphina delved deeper into the river's embrace. She sang not to men, not to wolves, but to the water itself. She called to currents that remembered ancient things, voices that had long been buried under silt and time. The river answered. Its surface broke with glowing runes, its depths roared with something older than gods. She emerged each night trembling, her skin faintly glowing, her eyes haunted—but her power grew.
Still, even as preparations thickened the valley, fear hung heavy. Pups whimpered at the scent of smoke drifting from distant villages. Mothers clutched their young tighter. Warriors sharpened claws and teeth but spoke little, because they all knew: what was coming was not a raid, not a skirmish. It was extinction or survival.
---
The Church came at dusk on the seventh day.
The horizon turned red, not from sunset, but from torches—thousands of them. The ground trembled with the march of armored feet, the clang of steel, the neigh of war-horses draped in spiked barding. Banners whipped in the wind, each emblazoned with the burning sun sigil of the Crusade. At the head rode the High Cardinal himself, armored in black gold, a great cross of flame rising behind him.
And beside him, towering above men, rode something worse than men.
The Seraph Blades.
Angels bound in flesh, their wings seared black, their faces covered in veils of silver, their swords burning with fire stolen from heaven. Shackled and enslaved by the Church's rites, their voices sang not of mercy but of slaughter. The sound of their hymns rolled across the land, splitting the sky with unnatural thunder.
In the valley, wolves lifted their heads, growling. Their fur bristled. Their ears flattened. Even Dominic felt the unnatural pull of the hymn, the way it clawed at the wolf inside him, trying to force it to heel.
Seraphina's voice broke through the tremor, sharp as a blade. "Do not listen. Do not yield. They sing with stolen tongues."
Dominic snarled, his golden eyes blazing. "Then we'll rip their tongues out."
The Crusade descended.
---
The first clash was fury incarnate.
Crusaders stormed the valley, shields locked, spears leveled, holy fire blazing across the ground. Wolves hurled themselves at the wall, smashing through men, dragging them into the dirt, blood spilling in rivers. Screams filled the air.
From the ridges above, Inquisitors loosed chains of silver, glowing with cursed runes. They lashed around wolves, tightening, burning, dragging them to their knees. But before despair could spread, Seraphina raised her hands and let her voice spill into the chaos.
Her song was not beautiful. It was wrath itself, a keening wail that turned chains to rust, split armor, cracked helmets. The Inquisitors shrieked as blood poured from their eyes. Wolves broke free, surging forward with renewed fury.
But the Seraph Blades moved then.
Their wings unfurled, vast and black against the burning sky. Their swords cut not flesh but soul, every strike tearing howls of agony from wolves. Dominic leapt to meet one, his claws colliding with a burning blade. Pain exploded across his arm, the stench of scorched flesh rising. He howled, but did not fall. He shoved forward, snapping at the angel's veiled face.
The angel's hymn slammed into him like fire in his lungs. His wolf staggered, choking, but before it could crush him, Seraphina's voice soared, weaving around the hymn, bending it, strangling it. The angel faltered, and Dominic drove his claws into its chest, ripping through silver flesh. The creature screamed—a sound that was part human, part celestial, part broken thing—and fell, its burning sword clattering to the dirt.
The valley roared with battle. Wolves ripped through men, angels clashed with fangs, fire swallowed trees, and above it all, Seraphina's song climbed higher and higher until the very river surged from its bed, rising in waves that crashed against the Crusaders, sweeping hundreds into the dark depths.
Still they came. Still the Church pressed forward, endless, relentless, their torches blazing, their banners unbroken.
And in the heart of it all, Dominic and Seraphina stood back to back—Alpha and Siren, wolf and sea, rage and ruin.
The war for survival had begun