The darkness was suffocating. Fenrik lay still, the weight of the night pressing down on him like a burial shroud. Then, a voice—a soft, desperate whisper—cut through the black.
"Fenrik! Wake up!"
His eyes snapped open to find his mother's face hovering above his, her crimson hair a cascade of fire in the dim candlelight. Her green eyes burned with urgency.
"You have to go! Now!" she said, her voice shaking.
Fenrik blinked, groggy. "Go where?" His mother's hands grasped his shoulders, shaking him as she spoke.
"Your father has ordered your execution. The elders have deemed you too weak to be Lupian. They are coming to kill you."
The words settled into his bones like ice. "Father...?" he whispered. "But why?"
She swallowed hard, brushing a trembling hand over his cheek. "Because that is the law. But I will not let them take you. Get up. Quickly."
Fenrik scrambled out of bed, still dizzy with disbelief. His mother grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the hallways of their home. The night outside was thick with tension; the howls of wolves echoed in the distance.
At the gates of the city, she turned to him, cupping his face in her hands. "Run, Fenrik. Run and never stop. I will hold them back and find you later."
"No! I won't leave you!" he protested, but she pushed him away.
"Go!"
Heart pounding, he sprinted into the darkness. But fear gnawed at him, forcing his feet to slow. He turned, hiding behind the thick trunk of a tree to watch.
From the shadows, two figures emerged—one short, one tall—their eyes glowing yellow in the moonlight. They lunged at his mother with supernatural speed, claws flashing like silver.
Her green eyes flickered. Then, with a pulse of energy, they turned a dangerous shade of red.
The battle erupted in a flurry of movement. His mother weaved through their attacks with lethal grace, countering with savage precision. She sidestepped a clawed swipe from the tall one, caught his arm, and in one fluid motion, sank her fangs into his throat. With a guttural snarl, she tore his head clean off and used his lifeless body to slam the short one aside.
Fenrik exhaled, hope stirring in his chest. Maybe she could win. Maybe they could escape together.
Then, from the darkness, three more figures emerged—larger, more menacing. Their red eyes gleamed like embers in the night. The air crackled with unseen energy as they shifted into their monstrous half-wolf forms.
They struck with terrifying speed, their attacks relentless. His mother ducked and twisted, dodging every strike, but Fenrik could see it—she was slowing. Her breath came heavier, her movements losing their sharpness.
She managed to twist the neck of one opponent before flipping back to gain distance, her feet barely brushing the ground before—
A blur of darkness. A flash of movement faster than the eye could follow.
An eight-foot figure appeared behind her, his hand spearing through her chest.
Fenrik's world shattered. He gasped, unable to breathe, his body frozen with fear. His mother turned her head slightly, her red eyes dimming.
The figure pulled his blood-soaked hand free and let her body fall to the dirt. He then turned his gaze toward Fenrik's hiding place, his eyes an even darker red than his mother's.
"Kill him."
Fenrik woke with a strangled scream. He sat up in bed, his body drenched in cold sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath ragged and uneven.
It was just a dream.
No. It was a memory.
He exhaled shakily, pushing himself out of bed. The cave was quiet, save for the distant crackle of a fire. He grabbed his clothes and made his way to the bathing area, splashing cold water onto his face.
After dressing, he entered the dining area, where a wooden table was set with a simple meal—bread, stew, and tea. Julia, the woman who had healed him, sat nearby, watching him with concern.
"You were screaming in your sleep again," she said.
Fenrik hesitated, then shook his head. "It's nothing."
She didn't press further. He ate in silence before stepping outside into the crisp morning air.
The first light of spring stretched across the mountain, melting away the remnants of winter's hold. In the distance, Eric stood beside a dying tree, his hand resting on its bark. A soft mist-like energy shrouded him, flowing into the tree. Slowly, its brittle branches quivered, then bloomed with fresh leaves.
Fenrik's eyes widened. "What... was that?"
Eric turned. "Essence. You've begun to perceive it. Your near-death experience and Julia's healing have awakened something in you."
Fenrik frowned. "Essence?"
Eric sighed. "Sit. Meditate. Feel it."
Fenrik obeyed, closing his eyes. As he focused, Eric spoke.
"Lupians develop faster than humans. A seven-year-old Lupian is as strong as a ten-year-old human. A ten-year-old Lupian is like a fourteen-year-old human."
Fenrik's jaw clenched. "And me?"
"You're as strong as a seven-year-old human."
Silence stretched between them. Fenrik opened his eyes, his fists tightening.
"Then I need to train."
Eric smirked. "Then let's begin."
For hours, they trained. Eric taught him footwork, evasion, and basic strikes—not the feral combat of the Lupians, but human techniques. Fenrik struggled, his body weak, but he refused to give in.
As the sun began to set, Eric clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. You learn fast."
Fenrik wiped the sweat from his brow. "Not fast enough."
Eric chuckled. "Patience, boy."
Lupian Throne Room
The throne room was vast, lined with towering pillars of black stone. Torches burned along the walls, their light flickering across fur-lined banners bearing the royal insignia.
On the throne sat a figure draped in shadows—the same one who had ended Fenrik's mother's life.
Before him, the Lupians who had hunted Fenrik knelt. One of them spoke, voice steady. "The boy is dead."
A long silence followed.
Then the king—Fenrik's father—exhaled. "Good riddance."
His voice was devoid of emotion.
He leaned forward, crimson eyes narrowing. "Now, we focus on more important matters. This continent will soon be united as one-as the Lupian Empire just as my father and his father envisioned."
The air in the throne room grew heavier, the unspoken tension lingering like a storm on the horizon as the king declared his intent to conquer.