The march began in silence.
No horns. No banners. No songs.
Only wolves padding through the night, their eyes aglow like embers scattered across the ruins of the world.
Dominic led them, his stride unbroken, his body burning with the fire that no blade had yet quenched. Behind him, Seraphina walked, her staff glowing faintly with wards that bent the shadows away. Around them, wolves loped in fluid silence, their paws drumming the dirt like a heartbeat.
They did not move as an army.
They moved as predators.
And predators needed no pageantry.
---
Far away, within Eryndor's sealed catacombs, the Cardinal shed his golden mask. His mutilated flesh wept gold-stained pus, but his hands trembled not with weakness, but with anticipation.
The priests had begged. They had argued. But in the end, they had obeyed. The forbidden doors were opened.
Chains rattled in the dark.
Whispers oozed like poison.
And the Cardinal descended among them.
The Choir of Thorns knelt in the black. Their mouths were sewn shut, their ribs pierced with barbed wire, their voices trapped until commanded. The Pale Inquisitors stood motionless, their skin stretched translucent, their veins glowing faintly with holy fire that burned them alive even as it kept them upright. The Ashen Sons crouched low, their bodies fused with molten iron, their hands melted into claws that dripped embers.
They were abominations. Weapons forged in secret, bound in scripture, erased from memory. They were never meant to breathe air again.
But the Cardinal's voice—ragged, venomous, filled with blind light—cut through their shackles.
"Rise."
They rose.
"Breathe."
They gasped.
"Kill."
They screamed.
The Basilica shook as chains snapped, wards shattered, and the forbidden army staggered into the world once more.
The Cardinal spread his arms, blind eyes blazing through ruin. "If wolves think themselves gods, then let us show them what gods create when they are afraid."
---
In the wilds, Dominic's pack made camp beneath the broken spire of a forgotten chapel. Its bells had long since rotted away, its walls overrun with ivy. The irony was not lost on him. Wolves sleeping beneath the shadow of a church they once feared.
Seraphina stood inside the ruin, her hands tracing the faded frescoes. Saints with hollow eyes, angels with chipped wings, demons crushed beneath boots of marble. She whispered, more to herself than to Dominic, "Even stone lies."
He stepped behind her, his voice low. "What do you see?"
Her eyes narrowed on one figure: a saint with a spear piercing a beast's heart. The beast's face was painted wolfish, its mouth twisted in agony. But the saint's smile—perfect, serene, merciless—was what made her shiver.
"I see propaganda carved into heaven," she said.
Dominic's lips brushed her ear, his growl rumbling. "Then we carve our own."
They turned, and outside, the pack waited. Not just soldiers, but refugees, children, wounded, mothers carrying babes. They followed Dominic not only for war, but for survival.
He stood before them, his voice carrying.
"The Church has always hunted us. They call it holy. They call it necessary. They call it righteous. But look around you. Look at the ashes they leave. They burn villages. They cage our kin. They rip children from mothers' arms and call it salvation."
The wolves snarled, low and furious.
Dominic's claws clenched. "We have hidden for centuries. We have begged the earth to shield us, the night to conceal us. But no more. The time of hiding is dead. The time of fear is ash. From this night forth, there is only war."
His voice sharpened, each word carved from iron.
"Not war for conquest. Not war for thrones. War for breath. War for survival. War for every howl silenced, every pack burned, every witch drowned. A private war. Ours alone. And we will not stop until Eryndor itself drowns in its own prayers."
The pack roared, a thousand howls rising into the sky, shaking the broken chapel's bones.
---
That same night, in Eryndor, the Cardinal dreamed.
Or perhaps he did not dream, but heard.
Whispers seeped into his mind, curling like smoke.
You are broken, and yet you burn.
You are blind, and yet you see more clearly.
The wolf rises, but so do you.
He saw visions: wolves burning, chains tightening, Seraphina screaming upon an altar of gold while Dominic clawed his own chest open in despair. The images were too vivid to be fancy, too cruel to be chance.
The voice purred: You are chosen, not by heaven, but by the dark that dwells beneath heaven. You and I are one now. Together, we end the heresy.
The Cardinal awoke gasping, sweat dripping through his bandages. But his ruined lips curled in a smile.
"If heaven abandons me…" he whispered, "…then hell will kneel."
---
The wolves' march grew heavier. The closer they drew to Eryndor, the more villages they found razed. But it was not wolf work. The scent was wrong.
One night, scouts dragged a survivor into camp—a boy, no older than twelve, his skin blistered, his eyes wild. He clutched at Seraphina's robe, sobbing.
"They came," he gasped. "Not men. Not priests. Not even angels. Things. Their skin glowed. Their mouths were shut with wire. They sang without sound. And the sky bled when they walked."
The pack fell silent.
Dominic's jaw hardened. He had fought knights, inquisitors, paladins. But this—this was something different. Something older. Something buried.
He crouched before the boy, voice steady. "Where did they go?"
The boy pointed north. Toward Eryndor.
Dominic rose, his claws flexing. "The Cardinal has opened his vaults."
Seraphina's eyes flickered, horror dawning. "The Choir of Thorns. The Inquisitors. The Ashen Sons. They were sealed for a reason."
Dominic's gaze cut to her. "Then he's more desperate than we thought."
Her hand found his. "Desperate men burn the world."
"And wolves," he growled, "burn back."
---
On the march, Seraphina and Dominic's bond deepened, though neither spoke of it aloud. It was in the way their auras pulsed together when they fought. The way his wounds closed faster when her hands brushed his fur. The way her songs grew sharper when his growl rumbled beneath them.
One night, when the pack slept, they stood alone at the river's edge. The moon painted the water silver, shadows swaying with the current.
Seraphina whispered, "Do you ever fear what we're becoming?"
Dominic's golden eyes met hers. "No."
"You should." Her fingers brushed the scar across his chest, glowing faintly as her magic tingled against it. "This bond—whatever it is—it's not just witch and wolf. It's something else. Something older. It frightens me."
He leaned closer, his voice a low snarl against her skin. "And does it tempt you?"
Her breath hitched. "Yes."
Their lips met, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The river stilled, the night hushed, their bond flared like a sun. For a moment, there was no war, no Church, no ruin. Only them, bound by something neither scripture nor prophecy could name.
When they parted, Seraphina's eyes glistened. "If this ends in fire, Dominic, I'll burn with you."
His hand cupped her cheek, his voice rough. "No. You'll survive. You'll sing the ashes into something new."
But in his heart, he knew: if the world burned, he would not let her burn alone.
---
The Church's army gathered.
The forbidden warriors marched at the Cardinal's command, their footsteps shaking Eryndor's streets. Citizens wept, priests trembled, but none dared resist. The Basilica loomed above them, its bells ringing war without pause, until the city itself seemed to vibrate with dread.
The Cardinal stood upon his balcony, his mask gleaming in the torchlight. His blind eyes scanned the horizon, though he could not see. Yet he felt. He knew.
"The wolf comes," he rasped. "And I will be waiting."
---
The wolves reached the last ridge before Eryndor. The city blazed below them, white marble glowing in the torchlight, its towers stretching like spears into the sky.
Dominic stood tall, Seraphina at his side, the pack arrayed behind them.
"This is no raid," he growled. "No skirmish. No retreat. This is the heart. And tonight, wolves carve their names into history."
The pack howled, their voices colliding with the bells of Eryndor, two worlds colliding in sound before they collided in blood.
The war was no longer holy.
No longer hidden.
It was personal.
Private.
Wolf against church.
Alpha against cardinal.
Bond against chains.
And as the first sparks of battle lit the horizon, the world braced for fire.