The night Zikura first disobeyed an order, the moon hid behind ash-colored clouds.
The city of Varenth lay below the cliffs like a wounded animal—its towers broken, its walls scorched black from previous raids. Smoke still lingered in the air, curling upward as if the land itself were trying to breathe out pain. Zikura stood at the edge of the cliff with the other Enforcers behind him, his crimson-marked armor humming softly with corrupted magic.
"Burn it," came the voice in his head.
Cold. Commanding. Absolute.
Lord Maelkor's magic slid through Zikura's thoughts like iron chains tightening around his skull. Leave nothing standing. No survivors.
Zikura's claws flexed. The familiar ache spread through his temples, a punishment waiting to happen if he hesitated too long. He had destroyed cities before—whole kingdoms reduced to echoes and graves. His hands were stained beyond cleansing.
So why did this city feel different?
Below, torches flickered as civilians ran through narrow streets. He could hear them—heartbeats, breaths, cries. Wolves never forgot how to listen.
A child screamed.
The sound cut through him like a blade.
For a brief, dangerous moment, the world fractured.
He was no longer on the cliff.
He was younger—smaller—standing in the snow outside Ravenfen Village, watching the elders build a fire. Children laughed nearby, chasing one another. A girl with braids—Lira—held his hand, her laughter bright and unafraid.
"You always listen too hard," she teased. "Even the wind can't whisper without you noticing."
The memory shattered.
Zikura staggered back, growling low as his vision blurred. Red runes across his armor flared violently.
"Focus," snarled one of the Enforcers behind him. "The Master is watching."
Zikura straightened slowly.
Yes. Maelkor was always watching.
With a roar that shook the cliffside, Zikura leapt.
Fire and Mercy
He hit the ground like a meteor, stone exploding beneath his boots. Panic erupted instantly. People screamed and scattered as Zikura rose to his full height, wolf ears flattening against his head, glowing eyes sweeping the street.
"Run!" someone cried.
Normally, he would have unleashed fire without hesitation—dark flame summoned from corrupted mana, cleansing everything in its path.
Instead… he hesitated.
A woman tripped in front of him, clutching a bundle to her chest. She looked up, eyes wide with terror.
"Please," she whispered. "Please…"
Her heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Zikura raised his hand.
The magic gathered.
Then he saw it.
The bundle shifted, and a tiny face emerged—an infant, no more than a few weeks old. Its eyes were closed, unaware of the monster towering above it.
Something inside Zikura broke.
The fire dissipated.
Gasps rippled through the street.
Zikura lowered his hand slowly. His breathing grew ragged, chest heaving as memories flooded in uninvited—hands lifting him as a pup, laughter around a hearth, the warmth of belonging.
"Go," he growled.
The woman froze, not understanding.
"GO!" he roared, his voice shaking the buildings.
She didn't wait a second longer.
As she ran, pain exploded through Zikura's skull.
Maelkor's scream tore through his mind.
TRAITOR.
Zikura dropped to one knee, claws digging into stone as black veins crawled up his arms. The runes burned like molten metal.
Around him, the other Enforcers stared in disbelief.
"You disobeyed," one said quietly. "He will punish you."
Zikura laughed—a broken, humorless sound.
"I know."
The Chain Tightens
The punishment came before dawn.
Zikura was dragged into the Crimson Sanctum, a place carved deep beneath the villain's fortress where light did not exist naturally. The walls pulsed faintly, alive with blood magic and suffering absorbed over centuries.
Chains rose from the floor like serpents, wrapping around his limbs, forcing him upright.
Maelkor appeared from the darkness—not fully physical, more presence than body. His eyes glowed like dying stars.
"You are unraveling," Maelkor said calmly.
Zikura snarled, teeth bared. "Then tighten your chains."
The villain tilted his head, studying him. "You spared prey."
"They were not soldiers."
"They were weak."
Zikura met his gaze, defiance burning despite the pain. "So was I. Once."
That was a mistake.
Agony unlike anything before ripped through him. Memories were torn open, dragged to the surface like exposed nerves. Ravenfen burned again. Screams echoed. Faces twisted into ash.
Maelkor leaned closer. "Your kindness was your flaw. I cured you of it. Do not relapse."
Zikura screamed—then howled.
The sound was raw, feral, ancient.
For a brief instant, the magic faltered.
Maelkor recoiled slightly.
Zikura noticed.
Hope flickered.
A Whisper in the Dark
After the punishment, Zikura was thrown into the Obsidian Cell, barely conscious. Blood pooled beneath him, his regeneration slowed by suppressive runes carved into the floor.
Hours passed—or days. Time meant little in darkness.
Then… a voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"Zikura…"
His ears twitched.
The voice wasn't Maelkor's.
It wasn't pain.
It was… gentle.
"Remember who you are."
Zikura forced his eyes open. The cell remained empty—but something warm pressed against his chest.
A glow.
Faint blue light shimmered there, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
A sigil.
Old magic.
Village magic.
"The Howlbind…" he whispered.
The protective charm the elders had given him before his first hunt. He had thought it destroyed when Ravenfen fell.
But here it was—alive.
A tear slid down his cheek, vanishing into the stone.
"I'm still here," he murmured.
And for the first time since his capture, Zikura believed it.