The Fang Beneath the Mountain
Beneath the shattered ridges of Blackspine Hollow, the Ironfang Pack prepared for war.
Unlike the Moonborn, who trained with balance, grace, and loyalty, the Ironfang cultivated savagery. Their stronghold—an ancient, crumbling dwarven ruin long since overtaken by wild magic and blood rites—reverberated with howls and violence.
Torches lit the cavernous walls, casting twisted shadows over racks of stolen weapons, enchanted bindings, and grotesque totems made of bone and steel.
At the heart of the hollow stood a monstrous figure: Warrick Bloodfang, Alpha of the Ironfang and architect of the coming storm. His fur was black as pitch, scars gouging the flesh beneath his armor like a map of old betrayals. His yellow eyes burned with fanatic zeal.
Beside him stood Commander Sarl, a former human hunter turned turncoat, whose soul had been willingly corrupted by the bite. He served as the bridge between Ironfang and Darnholm—cold, calculating, and ruthless.
"The Moonborn move," Sarl rasped, pointing at Kael's approximate sketches of patrol routes. "Their scouts grow bolder. If they reach the border towns, Darnholm's veil will fall."
Warrick growled, voice a thunderclap.
"Then we bleed them now. Burn their farthest reach. Show them fear."
He motioned to a group of warriors—hulking beasts bearing ritual scars and bearing blades etched with runes stolen from elven tombs.
But not all Ironfang followed blindly.
In the shadows, a younger wolf named Thorne watched with unease. Once a Moonborn defector, he had joined Ironfang seeking strength—but what he found was chaos fed by cruelty. Ritual sacrifices, forced turning of human prisoners, and the breeding of dark magics polluted the very air.
Thorne turned away as another prisoner screamed. His dreams were growing darker, and the cost of this "strength" was becoming clearer by the day.
Still, dissent here was death. So he remained silent… for now.
---
Later that Night…
In a hidden chamber beneath the hollow, Sarl and a Darnholm emissary discussed the next phase.
"We need chaos on the northern roads," Sarl said. "Attacks that look like Moonborn raids. Civilians. Travelers. Pilgrims."
The emissary nodded, unfazed. "Blame must fall on Alaric's kind. The court grows uneasy—this will tip the balance."
Even Warrick seemed amused. "Let the wolf king prove his innocence. By then, we'll be inside his heartland."
He turned to his warriors.
"Tomorrow… we paint the land red."
---
Elsewhere…
A crow landed near the border of Moonborn territory. On its leg, a blood-stained ribbon.
Kael found it at dawn.
It held no letter.
Just a claw—still dripping with fresh blood—and a scrap of cloth from a child's tunic.
A warning.
A declaration.
The Ironfang had begun.