The dawn was a cruel jest, its pale light smothered by ash and the stench of burned flesh, curling through the Black Hills like a plague. Magnus Varik stood at the western gate of his shattered estate, amber eyes blazing, the scar on his chest throbbing like a war drum. Above, the ravens—a swirling maelstrom of black wings and blood-red eyes—screamed a jagged chorus, their caws slicing his nerves raw. Jakob's warning echoed, the chilling hiss from the forest beyond not the psychic laughter of Isabella's vampires, but something older, hungrier, born of the Suldari's cursed legacy. The curse in Magnus's blood roared, a molten tide begging him to shift, to tear into the unseen predator stalking Eldershollow's ruins. His claws twitched, the distant howls of his father's werewolf pack—a vast, hidden legion—pulsing in his mind, but he crushed the urge with iron will, his rage a blade forged in the slaughter of his people.
Jakob, bloodied and clutching a salvaged spear, stood at his side, his face gray with exhaustion, eyes darting to the smoldering treeline.
"Magnus, it's not her," he rasped, voice tight with fear. "Isabella's gone, but this… it's worse. The ground's trembling, like it's alive."
Magnus's senses sharpened, cutting through the haze. The air reeked of decay, not the roses-and-death of Isabella's horde, but a fouler rot, like a grave ripped open. The ravens dove toward the forest, their screams sharper, as if heralding doom. His scar burned, the curse a living thing, and a low growl rumbled in his chest, half-human, half-beast.
"Stay back," he snarled, stepping forward, boots crunching ash. "Whatever it is, it's mine."
The forest exploded. A wraith-like horror—neither man nor beast—burst from the trees, its form a writhing mass of ash and bone, limbs too long, joints twisting unnaturally. Its face was a charred mask, hollow save for white-hot eyes that seared Magnus's soul. It moved with a predator's grace, frost trailing its steps, its hiss a psychic flaying that flooded his mind with visions of blood-soaked altars and howling Suldari wolves, their fur matted with the Citadel's curse. This was no vampire—it was a remnant of the Suldari, a nightmare birthed in the Forbidden Citadel's heart, awakened by Isabella's ruinous assault.
Magnus roared, his rage a furnace, the beast clawing free. His muscles convulsed, bones grinding, but he chained the full transformation, sprouting only claws and fangs, dark fur rippling across his arms. The wraith lunged, talons raking the air, and Magnus met it, claws slashing through its ashen form. The impact quaked the ground, frost exploding where they collided, the wraith's scream a blade in his skull. Visions of his father, Darius Varik, bloodied and forging the curse under a blood-red moon, staggered him, guilt and rage warring within.
"Magnus!" Jakob shouted, hurling his spear. It pierced the wraith's flank, shattering like brittle bone, but the distraction gave Magnus an opening. He drove his claws into its chest, black ichor spraying, its scream warping into a laugh that echoed the Citadel's malice. The ravens swirled tighter, their caws urging him on, as if they knew the creature's source.
"The Citadel sees you, First Howl's heir," it hissed, dissolving into ash, its voice lingering like a wound.
Magnus's breath heaved, the curse searing his veins, his partial transformation receding. Sweat mixed with blood, his amber eyes wild as he turned to Jakob.
"The Suldari's curse," he growled. "Isabella's attack stirred the Citadel—this is its answer."
A shadow moved at the gate's edge, too graceful for a guard. Elyon, the rogue sorcerer, stepped into the flickering torchlight, his pale skin glowing, eyes glinting like a wolf's.
"You're late to the game, Varik," he purred, voice a cold hum. "The Key of Destruction is a pact, split into three shards—one in Isabella's pendant, one in your cursed blood, one lost to the void. The wraith was a sentinel, guarding the Citadel's secrets. She's closer than you think."
Magnus's claws lengthened, rage flaring at Elyon's riddles.
"Speak plain, sorcerer, or I tear your throat out."
Elyon's smile was all teeth.
"The Suldari sought to bind the First Howl's power, but it broke them. Isabella wants the Key to merge her dual nature—human and horror—into a god. Your blood could stop her, or unmake the world. The ravens know the path to the Citadel. Follow, or the wraiths breed."
He gestured to the sky, where the ravens circled, their red eyes fixed on the Black Hills.
Before Magnus could lunge, Elyon melted into the shadows, his laughter a fading echo. The ravens screamed, diving toward the hills, their wings a storm. Magnus's scar pulsed, the pack's howls louder, tempting him to unleash them. Doubt gnawed—Elyon's words, the wraith's warning, the ravens' gaze. Was his blood a weapon or a trap?
Jakob's voice cut through, sharp with urgency.
"Magnus, the guards are whispering. Veyne's been too quiet since the attack. They think she's turned, like Korr."
Magnus's eyes narrowed, the beast stirring at the hint of betrayal. Veyne, his sharpest tracker, had sworn loyalty, but Korr's treachery still burned. The curse's hunger, the Citadel's pull, was fraying his pack. He crushed the urge to shift, his rage a cold flame.
"Find her," he snarled. "We march for the Citadel at dusk. No one betrays the pack."
The ground trembled again, a faint hiss echoing from the forest, joined by a low, unearthly howl—not werewolf, but older, ravenous. The ravens' caws grew shrill, their wings scattering as a crack split the earth near the gate, revealing a chasm etched with glowing runes. Something moved within, its shadow vast, its hunger a pulse that shook Magnus's bones.
The Citadel was waking, and Isabella's silver eyes haunted him, her pendant's glow a promise of ruin.