Chapter 16: The Gathering Storm
Lucian Conri's Point of View
2009 — Before Crescent Moon
The wind over the western cliffs carried the scent of ash and iron—familiar, bitter, and laced with the memory of blood. It rolled over the jagged ridges and poured into the valley below, where shadows clung to the charred remains of Northern strongholds. Once-proud fortresses had been reduced to broken silhouettes, their stone walls blackened, their towers gutted, the bones of their defenders buried beneath years of moss and neglect.
Lucian Conri stood at the cliff's edge, a solitary figure carved against the horizon. His long cloak snapped in the wind like a torn war banner, its edges frayed by years of battle. The cold gnawed at the exposed skin of his face, but it was a cold he welcomed. It reminded him of the night he'd burned the North. It reminded him of victory.
And failure.
His pale eyes, the color of winter bone, scanned the distant valley. His jaw clenched against a surge of memory — the cries of wolves in their death throes, the roar of fire devouring ancient halls, the acrid smoke that had choked the sky. It had been years since he brought the North to its knees, yet the satisfaction had long since curdled. Not when one boy had escaped.
Not when that boy still carried the name Artesian.
"Alpha Conri!"
The voice, harsh and strained, carried up the cliffside path. Lucian didn't turn at once. He listened — the scrape of boots over stone, the stagger of someone half-crippled by injury. When the sound drew close enough, he shifted his head slightly.
A rogue emerged into view — thin, panting, his tunic darkened with blood. He collapsed to one knee before Lucian, head bowed low.
Lucian's gaze slid over him, cold and unhurried. "You return alone."
"I was attacked," the rogue rasped, one hand pressed hard against his side. "In the Southern woods... near the abandoned ruins. At first, I thought it was one of their scouts. But he—he wasn't like the others."
Lucian's brow lifted. "Not like the others, how?"
The rogue's breathing quickened, his words stumbling over each other. "He was young. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Fast. Precise. He fought like someone trained by the North. He had control of the wolf... and something else."
Lucian's interest sharpened. "Something else?" His voice was low, deliberate — the kind of tone that could flay a man without touching him.
The rogue swallowed hard. "He wasn't alone. A human boy fought with him. Covered his back."
Lucian's silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. The only sound was the wind scraping against the cliffside.
"And the wolf?" he asked at last. "Describe him."
The rogue's eyes flickered — fear and awe tangled together. "Midnight fur. Crimson eyes. Not yet a full Alpha, but... there was something ancient in him. Power I've only seen once—when we fought Marcus Artesian himself."
At the name, Lucian's jaw tightened. A slow, dangerous heat coiled in his chest.
Marcus.
Lillia.
The North.
The night they had defied him burned in his memory like a scar. The night they had sent their only son away under cover of smoke and chaos. He remembered the fury in Marcus's strikes, the ferocity in Lillia's voice as she called down her last rally to the dying Northern ranks. Even surrounded by his most ruthless bandits, they had fought like gods among wolves — and they had wounded him. Humiliated him.
He had answered with fire. He had reduced the North to ashes, rivers to red, and yet — Zachary Artesian had slipped through his claws.
But now...
Lucian took one measured step toward the rogue. "Are you certain?"
"I saw the boy's eyes," the rogue said quickly. "The way he moved. He's no ordinary pup."
Lucian inhaled slowly, letting the taste of vengeance settle on his tongue. Then, with quiet finality, he said:
"Then we've found him."
He turned away, lifting his gaze to the storm-dark sky. Clouds moved in heavy sheets, dimming the sun into a pale, cold glow. The wind picked up, carrying the howl of wolves far to the west — a sound he had not heard in years, and one he intended to answer.
"Call them," he ordered, his voice a blade drawn in the dark. "All of them. The old wolves. The thieves, the broken, the scarred. Every bandit who's ever worn my crest."
The rogue hesitated. "All of them, Alpha?"
Lucian's head snapped toward him, pale eyes glinting like steel. "Did I stutter?"
The rogue flinched. "No, Alpha."
Lucian strode toward the cliffside tower, each step ringing against the stone path. As the fortress loomed closer — black and jagged, built from the bones of conquered strongholds — his voice rolled out behind him.
"Three nights from now, the moon will wane. When it splits the sky in half, we move. No warnings. No mercy. We raze the Southern woods and leave nothing breathing. Burn the trees if you must."
At the top of the tower, he paused. The wind tore through his silver-streaked hair, carrying with it the phantom scent of pine and wolf fur. He could almost see it already — flames clawing at the night sky, the forest screaming, and at its center: Zachary Artesian.
"You've run long enough, boy," he murmured to himself. "Your parents paid in fire. You'll pay in screams."
—
The war room of the tower was a cavern of stone and shadow, lit only by the orange glow of torches. Around the massive map table, the leaders of Lucian's rogue factions gathered — each one a relic of past wars. Scarred jaws. Missing eyes. Fur matted with age and blood. They were wolves who had outlived mercy and feasted on ruin.
Lucian entered without ceremony. The iron doors shut behind him with a resonant clang.
"We have found the lost pup," he announced.
The room stirred — growls of interest, murmurs thick with bloodlust.
"The Southern woods shelter a boy," Lucian continued. "A wolf with Northern skill, guarded by a human. He may be the last of Marcus and Lillia's line."
Cold rippled through the chamber. Old grudges stirred like sleeping beasts.
"We strike at the next half-moon," Lucian said. "I want him brought to me, dead or dying. Anyone who stands in your way — burn them."
Graven, an old brute with half his face lost to fire, lifted his head. "You believe this boy is Zachary Artesian?"
Lucian's mouth curved into a slow, cruel smile. "If I am wrong, the South still burns. But if I am right... then I finish what should've been finished long ago."
Another voice — low, cautious — spoke from the far side. "Alpha... the Southern woods are under the Luna's protection. The Seer."
Lucian's gaze cut across the table, sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you fear her?"
The rogue shook his head quickly. "No, Alpha. Only... she is respected. Even beyond the South."
Lucian's fist slammed onto the map table, rattling goblets and scattering carved tokens. "Then she dies respected. But she dies all the same."
—
Outside, the night came alive with howls. Across the Western wastes, messengers were sent, fires were kindled, weapons sharpened. Old loyalties, once thought buried, were summoned again in the name of blood and vengeance.
And somewhere in the quiet heart of the Southern woods, a boy with crimson eyes was unaware that the storm had already begun its march toward him.
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