A chilling silence settled over the sacred plateau as Torin's mercenaries handed their last supplies to the wolves, the food swiftly claimed by their hungry grasp. The Nightbound, a formidable pack of twenty led by their alpha Kael, lingered at the edge of the firelight, their ember-red eyes fixed on the struggling flames, a reflection of their ancient lineage forged alongside the Old Blood pack. The air grew heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness, as if the world itself paused to listen. Elara stood beside Ethan, her golden eyes weary, the glow dimmed by exhaustion. Days of travel etched lines into her face, her body swaying slightly from the relentless journey across rugged lowlands and shadowed hills. The wind carried no sound beyond the faint crackle of the dying fire and the wolves' labored, ragged breaths, a stark contrast to the howling gales she had endured. The ancient stones of the rite site towered around them, weathered monoliths etched with runes dulled by centuries yet pulsing with a faint, eerie energy that seemed to hum beneath her feet. The weight of Izolda's legacy pressed on her chest, a burden she had hauled for days without respite, her mind a tangle of guilt and purpose.
Ethan sat heavily near the central stone, his pale silver hair catching the firelight with an almost ethereal sheen, a stark transformation from its former dark hue, a mark of the Rite's toll against Strahen. His frame remained frail, shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion, his amber eyes dulled to a faint glow, reflecting the strain of battle and the blade's binding. The Blade of Severance rested across his lap, its edge glinting with a subtle, otherworldly sheen that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. Blood crusted his torn clothes, a dark reminder of the lair's violence, the wounds beneath still tender. Rufik limped to his side, his leg buckling with each step, the strain of his injuries etching deep lines into his weathered face. The pack, a blend of the six Old Blood wolves plus Ethan and the twenty Nightbound, ate greedily, tearing into the mercenaries' dried meat and bread with desperate hunger, their strength returning in slow, uneven waves after shared casualties. Torin watched from a distance, his scarred face a mask of stoic resolve as his men prepared to depart.
The Nightbound shifted, their forms a united front against the night under Kael's steady leadership, their presence a comfort that prickled Elara's skin with familiarity. She felt their gaze like a weight along her spine, a sensation that stirred memories of their journey together, a pack of twenty who had fought and bled alongside Ethan and the Old Blood since their alliance. Their ember-red eyes, a natural trait of their ancient lineage, hinted at a resilience tied to the supernatural forces stirring across the realm. Ethan's hand rested on the blade's hilt, his fingers trembling slightly, his breathing shallow and uneven. The silence unnerved her. After days of travel, guided by his howl through treacherous paths and sleepless nights, she had braced for chaos, for the generals' war cries or the clash of steel, not this oppressive calm that seemed to smother the plateau.
Reports of strange events had filtered to her during her trek, carried by weary travelers and frightened villagers.
Shadows moved without form through the streets of distant hamlets, livestock were found drained of life with puncture wounds no blade could explain, and lights danced in the night sky where no stars dared to shine, casting an unnatural glow over the land. The monks at the monastery had murmured of an old prophecy, their voices hushed as they spoke of generals rising from the dust of Strahen's fallen empire, their silence a prelude to doom. Elara had dismissed it as superstition, a tale to scare novices, until the vial's fire ignited her blood, searing her with visions of blood and betrayal. Now, standing on this plateau with the Nightbound's watchful gaze, she felt the truth of those warnings settle into her bones.
Ethan stirred, his voice weak but laced with a leader's resolve. The generals are near. I feel it in the blade. Its pulse has changed since the lair. He winced, his hand pressing against his side where Strahen's shadow-wreathed blade had grazed him, the pain a dull ache that gnawed at his focus. The Rite bound it deeper, he thought, but something darker stirs within. Voren's treachery opened a door I cannot close. His amber eyes flickered to the Nightbound, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. Could Voren's betrayal have tainted even them?
Rufik nodded, his hoarse voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. The ground trembled when we fled. They follow us. His leg gave a sharp twitch, a jolt of pain that made him grit his teeth, the battle's cost a constant companion shared with the Nightbound. He glanced at Ethan, his alpha, searching for strength in the frail figure before him.
Elara knelt beside them, her knees brushing the cold stone. I came to warn you. The generals march. Varek leads them. He seeks the blade. Her exhaustion showed in her slumped shoulders, her hands trembling from days of travel that had worn her spirit thin. She had followed the instinct in her veins, Izolda's compass guiding her through mud and mist, driven by a howl that had become her lifeline, met by the Nightbound's steadfast presence.
Torin approached, his boots crunching on the rocky ground, each step a deliberate echo in the silence. His mercenaries had fulfilled their task of guiding Elara, and now they prepared to return to their employer. As a gesture of support, they offered a few new weapons from their extra stock,polished swords, freshly strung bows, arrows with sleek raven-feather fletching, and supple whips etched with runes,distributing them among the six Old Blood wolves, the twenty Nightbound under Kael, and Ethan and Elara. For Rufik, they handed over a fat, four-cornered, two-edged blade, its form reminiscent of a blunt cleaver but crafted as a new sword, its edges dulled to a heavy thud rather than a cut, suited to his brute strength despite his injured leg. The pack accepted the gifts with nods of gratitude as Torin spoke. Our deal was to guide you. My employer expects reports... but that pack? He nodded at the Nightbound, his scarred face tightening. Their eyes unsettle me. I'll leave two men. They'll watch, and run if trouble brews. His voice carried a rare edge of unease, his hand resting on his longsword's hilt.
Ethan nodded his thanks, his voice a whisper of gratitude. The silence will break soon. We must be ready. He leaned back against the stone, his mind racing. The blade's pulse felt alien, a rhythm that clashed with his own heartbeat. He needed to recover, to lead, but the weight of the Rite threatened to crush him, especially with Voren's treachery lingering.
The pack murmured among themselves, their voices low and weary, a mix of the six Old Blood wolves and the twenty Nightbound, their strength returning with each bite of food after shared battles. The Nightbound, with their ember-red eyes, remained vigilant under Kael's command, their ancient lineage a testament to their unity with the Old Blood since their alliance. Elara felt a shiver ripple through her, not from the cold but from a memory stirring deep within. She had seen those ember-red eyes before, not in the waking world but in dreams that had haunted her sleep during her journey. Shadowed figures, cloaked in darkness, their forms indistinct yet hauntingly familiar, had whispered names she could not place, their voices echoing with malice. The dreams had grown vivid in recent nights, after days of travel had worn her body to the brink, leaving her mind vulnerable to their intrusion.
That night, as the fire dwindled to a faint glow, Elara lay near the central stone, its cold surface a stark contrast to the warmth of her exhaustion. The wolves rested around her, their breathing steadying into a soft chorus, a sign of life amid the silence, the Nightbound's presence a familiar comfort under Kael's watch. Ethan remained awake, his pale silver hair catching the moonlight that filtered through the plateau's jagged edge, a beacon of resilience. The Nightbound watched, their ember-red eyes glowing softly, a silent vigil after their shared trials. Elara closed her eyes, seeking rest, but the dreams came swiftly, pulling her into their depths.
She stood in a vast hall, its walls towering and carved with runes that glowed like dying embers, casting a reddish hue across the stone. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and ash. Shadowed figures moved around her, their forms shifting like smoke, their edges blurring into the darkness. One stepped forward, its face hidden beneath a tattered hood, its voice a rasp that grated against her ears. Varek. Another figure loomed to her left, its presence colder than the stone beneath her feet, whispering Malrion. The Silent King. Elara's heart pounded, a wild drumbeat in her chest. She tried to move, to flee, but her feet were rooted to the ground, as if the hall itself held her captive. The figures turned, their eyes glowing ember-red like the Nightbound's, a mirror to their ancient blood. They reached for her, their hands dissolving into mist that brushed her skin with an icy touch. A third voice joined, deep and ancient, reverberating through the hall. The Juniors awaken. The realm will bleed. The words sank into her, a prophecy or a curse.
Elara jolted awake, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The fire had nearly died, its embers casting long, dancing shadows across the plateau. Ethan sat nearby, his head bowed, his pale silver hair a faint glimmer in the dark. Rufik slept fitfully, his leg twitching with each pained breath, the new blunt blade resting beside him. The Nightbound's eyes glowed in the distance, unchanged, their vigilance a constant after shared losses under Kael's leadership. She rubbed her temples, the dream's weight lingering like a physical burden. The shadowed figures were generals, she realized, long dead but rising again from the ashes of Strahen's empire. The silence was their herald, a quiet that promised bloodshed.
She rose, her body aching from days of travel, her muscles protesting with every movement. She approached Ethan, her footsteps soft on the stone. He looked up, his amber eyes meeting hers, a spark of recognition breaking through his exhaustion. You felt it too, he said, his voice a thread of sound. The shift.
Elara nodded, her voice trembling slightly. I saw them. Varek, Malrion. Others. They are coming. Her mind raced with the dream's images, the ember-red eyes linking the Nightbound to the generals. The Nightbound. They know.
Ethan's gaze shifted to the pack, his expression hardening despite his frailty. Then we prepare. The Rite must bind the blade before they arrive. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the central stone, his resolve a fragile flame against the darkness. The pack needs strength. We face this together. His thoughts turned inward, a silent plea to the wolf within to hold fast against the vampiric hunger stirring in his veins.
The pack stirred at his words, their murmurs a low hum of determination, the Nightbound's twenty voices blending with the Old Blood's six under Kael's guidance. The Nightbound watched, their purpose clear as allies, their shared history a bond forged in blood. Elara felt the vial's fire stir beneath her skin, a warning or a call to action. Days of travel had brought her here, but the true battle loomed ahead, with Voren's treachery a shadow that was among them.
The generals were awakening, and their silence was no mercy. It was a warning.