The corridors of the estate were silent, the air heavy with incense and the weight of fading power. Torches guttered low along stone walls etched with the sigil of a dying clan: the Eryndor wolf, its once-proud fangs chipped, its eyes dulled.
The Hound knelt at the foot of the dais, his great blade planted before him, head bowed beneath the wolf-mask.
Upon the throne sat a woman draped in shadowed silk, hair silver as moonlight, eyes like dying embers that refused to fade. The Matriarch of Eryndor.
Her voice was soft, yet it carried like a commandment.
"You found them."
The Hound inclined his head.
"They burn with promise. Untamed. Frightened. But strong."
The Matriarch's lips curved into a faint smile, fragile yet sharp.
"At last… fate delivers more than ashes. Our bloodline may yet endure."
She rose slowly, every movement deliberate, as though even the act of standing was a ritual. Descending the steps, she placed one hand upon the Hound's blade, tracing its jagged edge with a reverence born of desperation.
"Do not delay," she whispered. "Others will covet them. Nobles, hunters, carrion kings… they will all circle like vultures. I will not let them rob me of this gift."
Her ember eyes locked on his mask.
"Bring them to me. Wrap this up quickly, before the realm swallows them whole."
The Hound bowed low, his voice like stone grinding against stone.
"It will be done."
And as he vanished into the shadows once more, the Matriarch lingered on the empty hall, her smile widening.
For the first time in years, the dying clan of Eryndor could smell blood — not of death, but of rebirth.