The forest exhaled as Elara stepped beyond its skeletal threshold. The mist parted like a reluctant curtain. Her golden eyes pierced the darkness. They were no longer human but alight with the fire of Izolda's blood. The vial's awakening had seared through her days ago. It was a torrent of memories and power that left her trembling yet resolute. Ethan's howl lingered in her ears. It was a thread of sound pulling her west across the lowlands toward the unknown after days of travel. The generals, Lord Varek with his blackened sabers, Malrion's silent command, the others with their twisted forms, marched from the Forest of Dead. Their war drums beat in her veins. Yet Ethan's call had shifted her purpose. The Blade of Severance was with Ethan now, taken from the forest's hollow for the final rite. The wolves needed warning. A deeper bond, forged in that shared howl, drew her to the pack leader.
The night air bit at her skin, but she felt no cold. Her breath misted faintly. It was a contrast to the heat pulsing beneath her flesh. The ravens that had trailed her from the monastery were gone. They were replaced by a lone owl gliding overhead. Its amber eyes mirrored her own. The lowlands stretched before her. They were a patchwork of shadowed fields and skeletal trees. The horizon was bruised with the promise of dawn. She had no map. She had no guide save the instinct thrumming in her veins. It was a legacy of Izolda's guilt, love, and betrayal. It was a compass carved into her soul. Each step felt like a betrayal of the monastery's peace. Yet it was a fulfillment of the bloodline she could no longer deny after days on the move.
By midday, the landscape shifted. The fields gave way to rolling hills. Their slopes were dotted with crumbling stone markers. They were ancient graves, perhaps, or boundary stones from a forgotten war. Elara paused atop a rise. She scanned the distance. A faint plume of smoke curled into the sky. It was too deliberate to be natural. The wind carried a scent of ash and blood. She turned to Torin. He nodded. They followed the trail. Her hand rested on the dagger at her hip. It was a gift from Brother Aram. Its hilt was etched with runes that glowed faintly under her touch. They were warm against her palm. The weight of the Order's awakening pressed on her. Torches flared. Armor clanked. A silence of centuries broke. She wondered if Aram watched from the monastery. His candle flickered in prayer or despair.
As they descended, the wind carried new sounds. They were the clink of metal and the low murmur of voices. Torin's mercenaries moved with military precision. Their armor glinted dully in the weak sunlight. Their banners bore a sigil she did not recognize. It was a coiled serpent devouring its tail. Mercenaries, hired by someone with resources. It was the Order, perhaps, or a lord sensing the war's approach. Her heart raced. It was a mix of fear and resolve. The generals' scouts could be near. Every step west risked crossing their path.
A figure detached from the group. He climbed the hill toward her. Elara tensed. Her golden eyes narrowed. The man was broad-shouldered. His face was scarred and weathered. A longsword was slung across his back. He stopped short. He sniffed the air like a hound. Then he turned directly toward her hiding spot.
No use skulking, lass, he called. His voice was rough but not hostile. I smell the blood on you. It is old blood. Come out, and let us talk.
Reluctantly, Elara stepped into view. Her hand was still on her dagger. The man raised an eyebrow at her glowing eyes but did not flinch. Name is Torin, he said. He lowered his hands to show peace. We are not your enemies yet. You are heading west, are you not? Toward the wolf lands?
She nodded. She was wary. How do you know?
Torin grinned. He revealed a chipped tooth. Tracks, scent, and a little luck. We have been hired to scout the borders. Word is, something big is stirring. It is generals, wolves, a blade that should not be loose. You have the look of someone tied to it.
Elara's jaw tightened. I need to reach the wolves. I must warn them.
Aye, and we might help, Torin said. But there is a price. Our employer wants intel. You tell us what you know about those generals, and we will get you west faster than you would manage alone. Deal?
She weighed her options. Alone, she would face the generals' scouts, the terrain, and her own exhaustion after days of travel. With Torin's men, she would gain speed. She would have a chance to learn more. Deal, she said. But I choose what I share.
Fair enough. Torin whistled. The mercenaries formed a loose escort. As they moved out, he fell into step beside her. Start with their names, then. We have heard rumors.
She recited them. They were Varek, Seraphine, Drennach, Morrakai, Thul, Kolvak, Malrion. Torin's expression darkened with each name. It was especially at Malrion's. The Silent King, he muttered. Thought he was a myth. They are real, then.
Varek seeks the blade, Elara said. It is with Ethan now. It was taken from the Forest of Dead for the final rite. It was meant to bind Dracula, but now. She trailed off. The weight of Izolda's legacy pressed on her. Had her ancestor's choices unleashed this? The guilt was a thorn in her mind. It was a question unanswered.
Torin spat into the dirt. Bad news. That blade in wolf hands might draw the generals faster. Where are they headed?
They left the Forest of Dead, Elara said. They moved west to a sacred plateau for the rite's completion. I think the generals follow.
The mercenary leader nodded grimly. Then we follow the smoke. My men can take you there by nightfall.
The journey passed in a blur of forced marches. Torin's men cut through ambushes by ghouls. Their decayed forms lunged from shadows. Claws scraped armor. The mercenaries dispatched them with efficiency. Elara shared scraps of her visions. She omitted Izolda's deepest secrets. They were the child cradled, the lover's betrayal, the sword through Strahen's back. Each memory flickered in her mind. It was a burden she could not yet unravel after days on the trail. By dusk, the howl came again. It was closer now. It reverberated through the hills. It was Ethan.
They crested a final ridge. The sacred plateau stretched before them. Ancient stones marked the rite site. A struggling fire glowed faintly. Shadows moved near it. They were the nightbond. Elara tensed. Torin raised a hand. They approached cautiously. The camp came into view. Wolves lay scattered among tattered tents. Their forms were gaunt. Their breaths were shallow. Ethan emerged slowly. pale silver hair gleamed faintly in the firelight. His frame was frail. His amber eyes were dim with exhaustion. The Blade of Severance rested unsheathed at his side. The Blade of Severance rested unsheathed at his side. Its edge gleamed faintly. Blood stained his torn clothes. Rufik limped nearby. His leg buckled. The nightbond loomed, a dark presence with ember-red eyes. The golden light in Elara's eyes met Ethan's. For a moment, the world stilled. She felt the pull of his howl. It was a connection beyond words. It was rooted in the bloodline's awakening.
You, he said. His voice was weak with recognition. The howl. I heard it in the forest.
I heard you too, she replied. The generals are coming. Varek seeks the blade you hold. We need to survive this.
Ethan's pack stirred. Their murmurs were faint. He studied her. Then he nodded. You are one of us now, blood or not. Tell us.
As she spoke, it was of the generals, their pursuit, her awakening. The pack listened. Their faces were grim. Hands rested on weapons they could barely lift. Ethan sat heavily. His hand brushed the blade's hilt. The blade changes things, he said. If I fall, Voren's treachery might aid Varek. He could unbind what is left of Dracula. He could turn it against us.
Elara nodded. It was meant to sever his power. She turned to Torin. The wolves were exhausted. He saw it. He ordered his men. Bring the supplies.
Torin approached with sacks of dried meat, bread, and waterskins. The mercenaries distributed them. The wolves ate greedily.