The Roar Beneath the World
When a tyrant falls, the silence is brief. The world listens... and then it answers.
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The Moonborn Highlands
A horn cried across the peaks of the Vale. It wasn't a warhorn—it was the Call of Skybinding, an ancient rite sounded only at the death of an Alpha recognized by blood and fury.
Flocks took flight from mountaintops. Wind stirred old banners still torn from the first werewolf rebellions. All who heard it knew: an age had ended.
In the great amphitheater of the Highlands, a conclave gathered. Not just Moonborn, but emissaries from:
The Silvermane Pact in the Frostholds.
The Shadowrun Kin from the Hollow Steppes.
Even the elusive Whisperfang Syndicates, who rarely stepped into the open.
Each came bearing the same question etched into their faces:
What happens now?
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The Mortal Realms React
In the human city-states of the south, word arrived by bloodhawks and magic-bound messengers.
In Asterwyn, Queen Lys regarded the news in silence. Her scribes whispered of the Ironfang collapse as a chance to reclaim the Northern Wilds. She only shook her head.
"Nature abhors a vacuum," she murmured. "And Alaric… he is no ordinary Alpha."
In The Free Duchies of Corvalis, the merchant guilds panicked. Trade with the northern tribes, already tense, was expected to rupture. They summoned envoys. The Moonborn were no longer a fringe force—they were a power bloc.
In Dalemire, the high scholars declared a celestial omen. "The Moon shifted at the hour Warrick died," one archivist reported. "A third eclipse in a single year. That hasn't happened in five centuries."
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The Wolves Beyond the Map
In forgotten jungles and frozen wastes, other werewolf factions stirred—those who had never aligned with Ironfang or Moonborn.
In the far west, The Redclaw Nomads—feral and exiled—lit their bonfires high. For them, this was opportunity. Ironfang was dead, and with it, the leash of centralized fear. Now they could hunt again.
In the drowned cities beneath Lake Blackmirror, the Drowned Kin howled for the first time in decades. Their deep-song echoed through dark tunnels. They had waited for chaos.
And now it had come.
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The Silent Reaction: The Council of Shadows
But not all who watched did so with howls or horns.
Deep beneath the Ebon Spire, a figure robed in gold-trimmed night silk leaned forward. Around him sat beings who had not aged in centuries.
"He has done it," the robed figure said. "Warrick is ash."
A pale woman whose eyes were empty voids replied, "Then mark it. The Prophecy diverges here. The boy lives. The future collapses inward."
The robed figure smiled. "Let it. The veil is thinning. The reborn Alpha will face more than just blades."
He placed a crystal shard on the table.
Inside it, Alaric's face flickered—wounded, breathing, sovereign.
"Let the old gods return."
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Final Scene – A New Throne
Alaric stood atop the broken spire of Ironfang Hollow, now purged of corruption. A gathering of wolves and allied clans spread out before him.
He looked not like a conqueror, but a savior bruised by fire.
He raised no sword.
He gave no roar.
He simply said:
"There will be no more kings. Only guardians."
And the wolves howled—not in rage, but in unity.