Chapter 8: Ashes Upon the Altar
The air crackled as Rigorus strode toward the heavy wooden gates of the Draeven clan grounds. Every step carried the weight of a storm — grief sharpened into cold resolve. His heart thudded, raw and restless, ready to break through any barrier in his path.
From the shadows cast by the towering shrine, a figure emerged, tall and imposing. His eyes were dark embers, burning with ancient authority. The stillness around him seemed to swallow sound itself.
"Where do you think you're going, Rigorus?" The voice was calm but carried the weight of mountains.
Rigorus halted, muscles tense, and instinct flared. The man was a stranger, yet the sheer force radiating from him triggered a flare deep inside Rigorus's soul. Without hesitation, his aura burst forth — a wild tempest of crimson and shadow, swirling and howling like a tempest unleashed.
"I don't know who you are," Rigorus spat, "but you'll have to get out of my way."
The man remained still, unshaken. The ground beneath them trembled faintly as Rigorus lunged forward, his aura scorching the air, eager to test the strength blocking his path.
But just as his fists moved to strike, the massive hall doors thundered open.
Celestia entered, pale and regal despite her frailty. Her eyes held a mix of sorrow and reverence as she dropped to her knees before the towering figure.
"Ohh Father… forgive my son… he does not know who you are."
The stranger's expression softened, just for a flicker, but his voice remained stern.
"Heed this, Rigorus. I have watched over this clan in silence for decades. Now, the time has come for shadows to step into the light."
Rigorus's fury momentarily stilled, his wild aura trembling like a caged beast. The man before him was not just a stranger — he was family. And his mother's words echoed like a solemn vow: this was Maazra Draeven, the clan's hidden guardian… and his grandfather.
The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the clan's ancestral grounds. The great ceremonial hall, draped in mourning black, was filled with solemn faces — some etched with sorrow, others masked in cold calculation.
At the center lay Liora's body, wrapped in silken cloth embroidered with the Draeven sigil. Her peaceful face belied the violence that had stolen her away.
The clan gathered in hushed reverence, prayers whispered for her spirit's safe passage. Yet beneath the solemnity, eyes flickered with suspicion — glances exchanged like silent warnings.
Celestia knelt by the altar, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her frail hands trembled as she clutched a lock of Liora's hair, her voice barely a whisper. "Rest now, my daughter. Your fight is done."
Elder Kalan stepped forward, voice steady but heavy. "This loss is not just of flesh and blood, but of hope. We must be vigilant — for enemies lurk both outside and within."
Whispers stirred — some elders exchanged knowing looks, others cast furtive glances at Rigorus, whose jaw clenched but eyes remained distant.
The funeral was both a farewell and a silent battleground, where loyalty, fear, and ambition warred beneath the veneer of mourning.
Maazra's Revelation & Warning
The weight of silence hung heavy between them, thick as the ancient stones of the Draeven shrine. Maazra's eyes, sharp as winter ice, bore into Rigorus with a gaze that seemed to see not just flesh and bone, but the very soul beneath.
"I have walked in shadow longer than you can imagine," Maazra began, voice low and steady. "The clan's enemies are not only without — they fester within. I have kept watch, kept balance. But the scales tip now."
Rigorus's fists clenched, the echo of his wild aura still faint in the air. "Then why hide? Why let her die?" His voice cracked with a mixture of anger and pain. "My sister fought with the fury of a lion. You were supposed to protect her."
Maazra's expression didn't waver, but something cold and unreadable flickered in his eyes. "Protection is a blade with two edges, boy. Too much interference could have doomed us all. There are forces at play you do not understand. Morda is not just an enemy; he is poison in our veins."
Rigorus swallowed, anger twisting into confusion. "Morda…?"
"The clan's darkness is deep," Maazra said, stepping closer. "And now, more than ever, you must be ready. Not just to fight for yourself, but to wield the legacy that runs through your blood. If you do not rise, the clan falls."
A heavy silence settled as Rigorus absorbed the words. The man before him — distant grandfather, shadowed guardian — was not merely a relic of the past. He was the harbinger of the war to come.
Maazra's voice cut through the stillness one last time: "Your journey has only just begun."
The great hall of the Draeven clan was shrouded in an oppressive silence, broken only by muffled whispers and the occasional stifled sob. Banners draped in black hung from the rafters, their edges fluttering softly in the cold breeze that seeped through cracked windows.
Clan members gathered in tight groups, their faces etched with grief, suspicion, and fear. Some avoided Rigorus's gaze, while others watched him with wary eyes — the air thick with unspoken accusations and doubts.
Elder Kalan, a stoic man with deep lines marking decades of hardship, approached Rigorus quietly. His voice was low but firm."Your sister's death is a wound not only to the clan but to its soul. But power unchecked breeds fear. Some whisper that your rise brings more danger than protection."
Rigorus clenched his fists, the weight of his loss battling with the sting of betrayal.From a corner, Celestia sat, pale and fragile, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. She whispered prayers for Liora's spirit, her heart breaking anew with every word.
The gathering was a crucible of raw emotion and simmering tension.Amidst the mourning, political undercurrents rippled — alliances shifting, old grudges resurfacing, and the unspoken question hanging like a shadow:Who will lead the Draevens through the coming storm?
Maazra rose with the solemnity of a winter storm, every motion deliberate, every breath measured. The murmurs in the hall died instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence.
His voice, when it came, was a blade forged in frost and fire—cold, precise, unavoidable.
"Among all the blood that stains this clan—excluding Kairos—only one bears the fire to burn its future into shape."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle like ash upon the room.
"Rigorus walks like a child yet, his steps uncertain and raw, but beneath that trembling lies a flame that no storm can quench. His potential is a blade hidden in rough stone—crude to the touch, but sharp enough to cleave mountains."
Maazra's eyes cut through the gathered faces like winter's chill.
"Do not mistake his youth for weakness. He is a wolf still learning to stalk the night, but wolves hunger, and hunger sharpens the claws. This clan will drown in its own decay unless that hunger is fed."
He let his words hang in the air like frost on steel.
"Tradition is the grave of progress, loyalty the chains that bind the dead. We need a blade forged in blood and ruthlessness, a mind that sees beyond the veil of comfort. Rigorus is that blade, and the time to sharpen him is now—or watch this clan bleed out in folly."
A brief flicker of something almost like reverence softened his gaze—only for a moment.
"This is no child's play. This is war."
The Test of Strength
The hall was thick with tension as Maazra's piercing words faded into the cold silence. Rigorus's heart pounded — a tempest of fury, grief, and burning determination.
Maazra stepped forward, his towering frame radiating unyielding authority.
"You wield power, but it is wild and untamed. To survive the storm ahead, you must master it."
Without warning, Maazra's aura flared—a chilling cascade of icy blue light, sharp and cutting like the edge of a dagger.
Rigorus's own aura surged in response, red and furious, clashing against the cold blaze like fire against frost.
With a swift movement, Maazra launched a controlled strike—not to harm, but to test.
The impact rattled Rigorus's defenses, forcing him back, but it was a measured push, a lesson hidden within force.
"Stand your ground," Maazra said coldly, "or be broken."
The clash was more than physical—it was a battle of wills, a silent demand for discipline, control, and the steel spine needed to carry a legacy.
Rigorus gritted his teeth, gripping White Fang and Black Fang tighter, channeling every ounce of rage into steadiness.
Maazra's eyes narrowed, a faint shadow of approval flickering through his stoic mask.
"This is but the first step. Prove yourself worthy, or be forgotten in the ash of those who came before."
The flickering torchlight cast long, twisted shadows against the cold stone walls of an underground chamber. The air was thick with the scent of iron and whispered menace.
Morda stood at the center, his dark eyes gleaming with cruel intent. Around him, a handful of grim-faced lieutenants—only five in total, each a force of nature—hung on his every word.
"Dreadmaul acted without orders, dragging the Draeven clan into a war before we were ready," Morda said, voice cold as steel. "Kairos is nowhere to be found. Without him, Rigorus stands as the clan's last giant."
He paused, glancing toward the shadows where a figure watched silently from the darkness above—only known as Father.
"Our Father's patience is thin. He demands obedience, and those who fail face consequences beyond reckoning."
A hulking brute stepped forward, muscles rippling beneath battle-worn armor. "Send me to end Rigorus. I will carve the clan's last hope from their hearts."
Morda's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Patience. We strike like shadows—silent and unseen. Rush, and the prey will vanish."
His gaze hardened, sharp and unyielding. "Prepare yourselves. The clan will bleed, and Rigorus will be forced to choose: fight, or die."