The plateau was no longer silent.
Footsteps whispered across the stone, measured and disciplined. Shadows shifted where the assassins fanned out, blades glinting faintly under the gray sky. They moved with the confidence of predators certain of their prey, each breath purposeful, each step practiced.
The prince crouched low, body pressed against the jagged rocks. His heart pounded, but not with the same helpless panic of before. No—something else burned through his veins now. His blood hummed with the wolf's essence, senses sharper than a blade's edge.
Every assassin's motion screamed to him: the scrape of a boot sole, the rustle of cloth, the faint rasp of steel against a sheath. He could smell them too, sharp and acrid—the iron tang of oiled weapons, the sweat of bodies honed for killing.
For the first time, he felt like the hunted beast… and the hunting beast all at once.
The Codex's voice slithered into his skull, smooth and insistent.
"Do you feel it, vessel? This is their mistake. They believe you crippled, broken. But you carry a wolf in your veins. Do not fear them. Feed on them."
He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Feed. Always that word. Always that hunger.
"I just want to live," he whispered, trembling.
"And to live," the Codex crooned, "you must take."
A shadow passed above him. One of the assassins had reached the ledge, scanning the rocks below. His gaze swept nearer, nearer—until it caught on the faint glow in the prince's eyes.
Steel hissed free.
"There!"
The trap snapped shut.
Three assassins leapt from the plateau's rim, blades gleaming, moving with fluid, merciless precision. They did not shout, did not taunt—they struck as men who had killed a hundred times before.
The prince's body moved before thought caught up. His wolf senses screamed warnings—an arc of steel from the right, a thrust from above. He dropped, rolling across the stone, the first blade slicing air where his throat had been. His muscles surged with a strength that should not have been his, bone and sinew answering the beast's call.
Clang! Sparks flew as a dagger scraped stone inches from his face. He lashed out instinctively, catching an assassin's wrist. The man was strong, trained, but the prince's grip was iron, fingers bruising flesh.
The assassin's eyes widened.
"You—!"
He never finished. The prince twisted savagely, yanking him off balance, then slammed his head against the rock. Bone cracked, blood spilling. The man sagged, dazed but not dead.
"Kill him quickly," another assassin barked, blades weaving in a deadly dance.
They lunged together, their formation tight, practiced. A feint, a thrust, a slash—too fast, too fluid.
But the wolf within the prince saw through it. His vision blurred into clarity—each movement slowed just enough for him to react. He twisted aside, the blade's kiss grazing his ribs instead of piercing his heart. Pain flared, but his body burned it away with unnatural regeneration.
He struck back clumsily, a wild swing with a shard of bone. They parried with ease, laughing under their breath. "Pathetic," one hissed. "Even with tricks, you're still the weakest."
The words stung like venom. Memories crashed into him: his brothers' jeers, the court's laughter, the Emperor's cold indifference. Always weakest. Always nothing.
"No…" His voice cracked as he staggered. "Not anymore."
He drove the shard of bone upward, straight into the dazed assassin's throat. The man's scream tore across the plateau, cut short as black fire curled from the wound. The Codex surged, eager, ripping essence free in a torrent.
The prince convulsed as the power poured into him. This time it wasn't just strength or vitality—something swifter laced his veins, a lightness in his limbs, a predator's quickness. His blood thrummed, demanding he move, urging him to strike.
The assassins recoiled, faces twisting in shock. "What is this…?"
The prince's eyes flared, pupils narrowing to wolfish slits. He stepped forward, and the world bent around his speed—one heartbeat, one blur, and he was already past them, their blades slicing empty air.
Behind him, they spun, suddenly wary. No more mockery in their eyes. Only recognition. Fear.
The Codex laughed softly, curling around his thoughts like smoke.
"Yes… do you feel it? Their speed is yours now. Devour more, and you will rise beyond every brother who scorned you."
The prince trembled, chest heaving, body alight with this terrifying, exhilarating power. He had killed again. He had fed again. And he could not deny the truth—part of him craved more.
But before he could think, before he could master the flood of instincts, the remaining assassins moved as one. Their leader stepped forward, hand flashing with strange sigils. Dark runes crawled across his blade, the air warping with a forbidden technique.
"This ends now," the assassin growled.
The prince's blood ran cold. His newfound speed faltered beneath the weight of that ominous glow.
And the Codex purred, hungry still.
"Then survive, vessel. Or die."
The sigils flared like burning brands, each rune writhing as if alive. The air thickened, humming with malignant energy, the ground beneath their feet vibrating with suppressed violence.
The leader's blade pulsed black-red, veins of corruption crawling up his arm. His eyes were pits of focus, stripped of humanity, locked only on the kill.
The prince's throat tightened. His wolf-born senses screamed—every instinct shrieking that this strike was not one he could dodge, not one he could withstand. This was not a simple blade—it was a curse, a death sentence forged for him alone.
The other assassins shifted back, making room. Their silence spoke louder than words: they knew what was coming, and they knew it would end him.
The Codex whispered with a sick sweetness, almost tender.
"Do you feel it? That is the weight of inevitability. This strike will tear flesh, bone, soul. It will unmake you. Unless…"
The prince's fists clenched, nails cutting into his palms. His breath came ragged, vision blurred by fear and fury. "Unless what?"
"Unless you stop fighting like prey. Unless you open the floodgates. Let me burn, and I will devour his deathblow for you."
The leader moved.
It was not speed—it was inevitability. The blade descended in a perfect arc, runes blazing, the air splitting with the sound of reality itself being carved open.
The prince's body lurched to respond, his newfound swiftness snapping into motion. He twisted, ducked, but the cursed edge still bit.
Agony ripped through his side as steel kissed flesh, and something deeper—something inside him—shattered. He screamed, staggering back, blood spraying in dark ribbons. The forbidden strike did not merely cut him; it sought to unweave him. His very essence frayed at the edges, his body weakening, his breath seizing.
The leader's lips curved into the cold smirk of a man delivering certainty. "The Forsaken Prince dies here."
The prince collapsed to one knee. His vision swam, the world tilting, his limbs trembling like broken branches. For an instant, he saw himself as they did: weak, doomed, forgotten.
But then—
Thrum.
The Codex ignited.
Black veins along his arm flared, the air around him warping as a low, guttural hum filled his chest. His blood boiled, his wounds seared, and beneath the agony something coiled tighter, hotter. Not just essence. Not just hunger. Flame.
The assassins faltered, their disciplined composure cracking. The leader's blade hovered, caught mid-air as though pressing against an unseen tide. His eyes narrowed. "What… is this?"
The Codex's laughter rumbled, ancient and triumphant.
"The beginning."
The prince's body convulsed, pain and power colliding until he could not tell the difference. A heat, alien and infinite, licked at his veins, begging to be unleashed. He felt it building, roaring, clawing to break free.
His vision tunneled, his breath ragged, his voice hoarse as he whispered—half-plea, half-surrender:
"…What are you doing to me?"
The Codex's tone turned gentle, almost soothing, like a father coaxing a child to take his first step.
"Nothing, vessel. This… is yours."
A spark flickered across his palm—black flame, cold and endless, devouring light instead of casting it. It writhed like a living shadow, eager to consume.
The assassins froze, horror dawning in their eyes. Even the leader's mask of certainty fractured.
And the prince, kneeling in blood and ruin, stared at his trembling hand, knowing his next breath would decide everything.
The chapter closes with him on the edge of something monstrous—no longer prey, no longer merely the forsaken prince, but something far worse.