Pain had a rhythm.
Zikura learned that in the dark.
It pulsed through him in slow, deliberate waves, rising and falling like the tide against a broken shore. Each surge burned through his veins, igniting the suppressive runes carved into the obsidian floor beneath him. His body healed slowly—too slowly—his magic shackled, his strength drained just enough to keep him alive but never comfortable.
That was how Maelkor liked it.
Zikura lay on his side in the Obsidian Cell, breath shallow, claws curled weakly against his chest. Every movement scraped raw skin against stone. The collar at his neck hummed faintly, sensing his consciousness, waiting.
Waiting for obedience.
But something was different now.
Beneath the pain, beneath the exhaustion, there was a warmth.
A quiet, stubborn warmth pulsing against his heart.
The Howlbind sigil.
Its faint blue glow flickered like a candle struggling against a storm, but it did not go out. Zikura focused on it, clinging to the rhythm of his own heartbeat, grounding himself in the sensation of being rather than breaking.
"I didn't forget," he whispered hoarsely. "You couldn't make me."
The sigil pulsed brighter in response.
Memories drifted to the surface—not torn open like Maelkor's punishments, but slow, gentle things. Ravenfen's snow-covered rooftops. The sound of drums during the Moon Vigil. The way the elders had painted symbols on his arms and told him the wolf was not a curse, but a promise.
Power exists to protect, Elder Ruvan had said.
Otherwise, it devours its bearer.
Zikura exhaled shakily.
He had been devoured for too long.
Footsteps echoed faintly beyond the cell.
Zikura stilled instantly.
He counted them—light, measured, cautious.
Not guards.
Someone alone.
The footsteps stopped just outside the cell's rune-etched barrier.
Silence stretched.
Then—
"They didn't break you."
Zikura's eyes snapped open.
A figure stood beyond the bars, half-hidden by shadow. He recognized the scent before the voice fully settled—iron, smoke, restrained magic.
Kaelen.
One of Maelkor's Enforcers.
Not one of the cruel ones. Not one of the eager ones either. Kaelen was sharp-eyed, quiet, always watching. A swordsman who followed orders but never celebrated the aftermath.
"What do you want?" Zikura rasped.
Kaelen stepped closer, his face illuminated faintly by the Howlbind's glow. He was younger than most Enforcers, his dark hair pulled back, a thin scar running along his jaw.
"I wanted to see if the rumors were true," Kaelen said quietly.
"What rumors?"
"That you screamed like a beast," Kaelen replied. "And howled like something older."
Zikura let out a weak, humorless breath. "Disappointed?"
"No," Kaelen said after a pause. "Relieved."
That surprised him.
Kaelen crouched slightly, keeping his voice low. "When Varenth burned… you spared them. I saw it."
Zikura's claws tensed. "If you're here to report me—"
"I'm here to understand," Kaelen cut in.
Understanding was dangerous.
Zikura studied him carefully. "Then understand this: I didn't choose this."
Kaelen nodded slowly. "Neither did I."
Silence pressed between them, thick with unspoken truths.
"Maelkor is tightening control," Kaelen said finally. "He's afraid."
Zikura's ears twitched. "Afraid of what?"
"Of you remembering," Kaelen replied.
That sent a shiver through him.
Kaelen reached into his cloak and withdrew something small—a vial glowing faintly green.
"This will weaken the suppressive runes for a short time," he said. "Not enough to free you. But enough to let your magic breathe."
Zikura stared at it. "Why?"
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "Because monsters don't question orders. And you're starting to."
He slid the vial through the bars.
"For tonight only," Kaelen warned. "After that… I can't help you."
Zikura wrapped trembling fingers around the vial.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Kaelen stood. "Choose carefully, Wolf."
Then he was gone.
The potion burned like liquid fire as it slid down Zikura's throat.
For a terrifying moment, he thought it would kill him.
Then—
The chains loosened.
Not physically. But internally.
Magic rushed back into his veins like breath after drowning. His senses sharpened violently—every crack in the stone, every distant scream, every pulse of corrupted mana in the citadel.
Zikura gasped, clutching his chest as the Howlbind flared bright blue.
For the first time since his capture, his magic answered him.
Not Maelkor.
Not the collar.
Him.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, not forcing, not fighting—just listening.
The wolf responded.
It wasn't rage.
It was grief.
It showed him cities burning. Survivors fleeing. The girl in Kethryl. The woman with the infant. Each spared life glowed like a star against the darkness.
This is who you are, the wolf whispered.
Not what they made you.
Zikura's breath steadied.
"I choose," he murmured.
The floor beneath him cracked slightly as magic seeped outward—not destructive, but grounding. The runes flickered, struggling to hold.
Alarms did not sound.
Maelkor did not appear.
Zikura smiled faintly.
For once, he was ahead of the pain.
The next mission came at dawn.
A border settlement called Eirwyn Crossing—small, poorly defended, strategically meaningless.
Which made it perfect bait.
Zikura stood among the Enforcers as the portal opened, violet energy tearing a wound in the air. His armor felt heavier today, the collar colder, as though it sensed betrayal before it happened.
Maelkor's voice echoed into his mind.
Do not fail me again.
Zikura did not respond.
They stepped through.
Eirwyn Crossing was quiet.
Too quiet.
Zikura's instincts screamed.
He lifted a hand subtly, signaling the Enforcers to halt. Several ignored him. One—Kaelen—stopped.
That was enough.
The ambush came from below.
Runes ignited beneath their feet as resistance fighters burst from hidden tunnels, magic blazing. Bolts of light slammed into the Enforcers, knocking them back in chaos.
"Form ranks!" someone shouted.
Zikura moved without thinking.
Not forward.
Sideways.
He slammed his claw into the ground, channeling earth magic upward. Stone erupted, forming a barrier between the villagers and the Enforcers' line of fire.
Gasps echoed.
Both sides froze.
Zikura turned slowly, standing between them.
"I won't do this anymore," he said, his voice carrying unnaturally far.
The collar flared violently.
Pain ripped through him, but he stood his ground, teeth bared, eyes blazing gold instead of red.
"You're being controlled!" a villager shouted. "Get away from him!"
Zikura raised his hands slowly. "I know."
The resistance leader—a woman with silver markings on her face—stared at him in shock. "You're the Wolf of Ruin."
"I was," Zikura replied. "I want to be something else."
The ground shook.
Maelkor's presence descended like a storm.
You dare defy me in front of witnesses?
Zikura roared, a sound of defiance rather than submission.
"I choose," he shouted back, voice cracking with power and pain, "who I become!"
The Howlbind exploded with light.
For one impossible moment, the collar cracked.
Not shattered.
Cracked.
Magic surged outward, knocking everyone back as a shockwave tore through the crossing. The portal destabilized, screaming as it collapsed inward.
Zikura fell to one knee.
The resistance fighters stared in stunned silence.
Kaelen stepped forward slowly.
"He's telling the truth," Kaelen said. "And if we don't leave now, Maelkor will slaughter everyone."
The leader hesitated—then nodded sharply.
"Move!"
As villagers fled, Zikura dragged himself upright, forcing his body to obey one last time.
He turned toward the collapsing portal.
Kaelen met his gaze. "This changes everything."
Zikura smiled, blood dripping from his mouth.
"Good."
He stepped into the portal just as it imploded.
When Zikura woke, the citadel trembled.
Maelkor's scream echoed through the walls—not of rage alone, but of fear.
The wolf curled within Zikura's chest, wounded but alive.
And for the first time, the future did not feel like a cage.
It felt like a battlefield.
One he had chosen.