The holy city of Eryndor had never known silence. Its bells rang every hour, its priests sang in endless shifts, its markets thrummed with pilgrims, merchants, and knights. But when the Cardinal's broken body was dragged through the gates, the city's song strangled.
The bells did not toll.
The choirs faltered mid-hymn.
The market stilled.
For the first time in centuries, Eryndor went quiet.
His face, once radiant with divine beauty, was torn to ribbons. His eyes, once pools of holy fire, were milk-white, blind. His robes, once immaculate, were soaked with his own golden blood. He was not carried upon his white steed or raised upon a throne of triumph—he was dragged in a tattered litter, groaning like any mortal.
The faithful lined the streets, horrified. Some wept. Some screamed. Some fell to their knees, beating their chests in prayer. But the murmurs spread too quickly, like plague:
The wolf ruined him.
The Alpha spared him.
The holy light failed.
The Church guards barked orders, but the words rang hollow. The people's eyes were wide with something more dangerous than grief. Doubt.
Inside the Grand Basilica, the High Priests gathered around the Cardinal's stretcher. They hovered like crows, wringing their hands, their eyes darting between his mutilated face and each other.
"He should not live." One whispered, fear edging his voice. "If the people see him like this—"
"They already have," hissed another. "And yet, he does not die. What does it mean? Why does God not claim him?"
The Cardinal's broken mouth twitched. His voice was hoarse, shredded, but it cut through their whispers like glass.
"It means…" He spat blood. "…that vengeance is not finished."
The priests recoiled. His mangled face twisted, lips peeling back in a smile too cruel, too human.
"I will not die until the wolf is ashes. Until the witch is staked. Until their pack howls in chains beneath our altar. Do you hear me? God has left me breathing for this purpose alone."
The priests bowed, trembling. Whether they believed his words or feared his wrath, none could tell.
But outside, the city roiled.
Rumors became wildfire. Pilgrims whispered of a golden wolf, of a witch whose song broke chains, of a pack who tore through the Church's chosen army. Some said the Cardinal's fall was proof of corruption. Others said it was a trial of faith. But all agreed on one thing: the Church bled.
And wolves howled at the gates of heaven.
---
Far from the marble towers of Eryndor, the wolves gathered in the ruins of a burned village, their firelit eyes watching Dominic.
The Alpha stood at the center, his fur still scorched with golden flame. The smell of blood clung to him, but he bore no wound that slowed him. Seraphina leaned against him, pale but upright, her strength slowly knitting back into her veins.
They had won. They had shattered the Seraph Blades. They had maimed the Cardinal. They had proved that wolves could stand against heaven's armies.
And yet, Dominic's face was a mask of stone.
"This is not over," he said, his voice low but carrying to every ear. "The Church will crawl back into their walls, but they will not stay caged. They will summon more. They will twist the tale. They will rise again, harder, sharper, desperate."
He looked to the horizon, where Eryndor's towers pierced the clouds. His molten eyes narrowed.
"They will not wait for us to strike. We must carry the war to their heart."
The pack murmured, uneasy. To speak of raiding villages was one thing. To speak of storming Eryndor—the holy city itself—was madness.
But Seraphina's voice joined his, quiet but certain. "Madness is survival now. The Church will not stop until every wolf is dust. You've seen their reach, their armies, their chains. There is no hiding. No running. Only fire against fire."
Her hand found Dominic's. The glow between them pulsed, soft but steady, as though the world itself acknowledged their bond.
Dominic lifted his claws, still crusted with divine blood. "We end this war at its source."
The wolves howled in answer—not of certainty, but of surrender to his will. He was Alpha. His word was law. And his law was war.
---
In Eryndor, the Church moved like a wounded beast, licking its wounds in shadow while plotting its strike.
The Cardinal sat upon a blackened throne in the Basilica, his ruined face hidden beneath gold and ivory masks. His voice, though scarred, carried venom enough to poison the air.
"Summon them," he ordered.
The priests bowed. "Summon who, Eminence?"
"The Choir of Thorns. The Pale Inquisitors. The Ashen Sons. Every blade, every curse, every shadow we swore never to unleash. Summon them all. If wolves dare challenge heaven, then let us drag hell to the battlefield."
The priests hesitated, pale with dread. "Those orders… were sealed by God Himself. To unbind them is sacrilege."
The Cardinal's blind eyes flared with golden fire. "Sacrilege?" He laughed, a ragged sound that scraped the walls. "Do you not see? God Himself left me broken yet breathing. He left me to finish this. If heaven demands restraint, then I will tear heaven down with my bare hands."
The Basilica trembled with his fury. Candles guttered. Shadows stretched long, like claws across the marble floor.
The priests bowed lower, unwilling—or unable—to resist.
The Church, once radiant with divine restraint, began to crack. In its desperation, it reached for weapons it had sworn never to wield.
And across the horizon, the wolves sharpened their claws.
---
That night, Seraphina stood alone at the edge of the ruins. Her voice hummed softly, weaving through the broken houses, the blackened chimneys, the graves freshly dug for the wolves who had fallen. Her song was not for Dominic, not for war, but for the dead.
The air shimmered faintly, carrying whispers of their spirits, a soft glow like embers drifting through the night. They did not linger long—wolves did not cling. But for a moment, their howls joined hers, gentle, mournful, free.
Dominic approached, silent until he stood beside her. His hand brushed her shoulder, grounding her.
"You carry too much," he said.
Her lips quirked, though her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. "And you carry more."
They stood in silence, watching the stars. Finally, she whispered, "You spared him."
Dominic's jaw tightened. "I ruined him."
Her gaze turned to his, sharp even through weariness. "But not enough. He still breathes. Still plots."
"I know." His eyes burned. "But his death would have been mercy. I wanted him broken. I wanted them all to see their untouchable god-king crawling in dirt, screaming like swine. Death cannot shame. Ruin can."
Seraphina studied him, her hand sliding into his. "Then ruin will be our weapon. Against him. Against the Church. Against every mask they hide behind."
Their bond pulsed again, brighter, stronger. Not just wolf and witch. Something more. Something the world itself bent to.
And far away, in the marble towers of Eryndor, the Cardinal felt it like a thorn in his shattered flesh. He snarled, clawing at his mask until his fingers bled.
"Witch," he hissed. "Wolf."
His ruined reflection stared back at him, a monster dressed in holy robes. His hands trembled not with weakness but with hunger.
"This ends in fire."
---
Thus the stage was set.
A city trembling under its own faith.
A Cardinal broken but unbowed, summoning horrors in the name of God.
A pack bound by blood and ruin, sharpening their claws for a war no wolf had dared dream.
And between them all—Dominic and Seraphina, their bond a spark the Church could neither cage nor kill.
The world held its breath, balanced on the knife-edge of faith and fury.
And somewhere, deep in the marrow of the earth, the gods stirred.