The capital of Astrid had endured crises before, but never one that crept in so quietly, carried not by screams or flames, but by rumours that refused to die.
At dawn, the first messengers arrived from the eastern region. By midday, there were dozens. Their horses collapsed in the palace courtyards, legs trembling, mouths foaming, as riders stumbled down with expressions carved from disbelief rather than fear. They spoke of lands once marked for abandonment now standing untouched. Of villages that should have been ash still breathing, still alive.
They spoke of demonic beasts vanishing.
Not scattered. Not delayed.
Erased.
Entire hordes were found butchered across plains and forests—bodies torn apart, cores ripped out, blood soaked so deeply into the earth that the soil itself reeked of death. Tracks showed no sign of organized human armies. No siege weapons. No knight formations.
Only claw marks.
And paw prints.
Large ones.
Again and again, survivors told the same story. Wolves, massive and countless, moving like a single organism. Riders upon their backs, faces hidden, eyes cold. Above them all flew a banner the colour of fresh blood, snapping violently in the wind.
A crimson flag.
Marked with the sigil of House Bellhem.
When the final report was read aloud, the royal court exploded.
"That house was stripped of power!"
"They lost all military authority!"
"No surviving branch has the strength to field an army like this!"
"This is a provocation!"
Panic twisted into anger, and anger into fear. To the nobles, demonic beasts were a known enemy. Predictable. But an unknown force—one that acted without permission, without command, without oversight—was far more dangerous.
Speculation turned savage.
"A rogue warlord!"
"A false heir!"
"A rebellion masquerading as salvation!"
One noble stood abruptly, voice sharp with urgency. "We should dispatch knights immediately and crush this threat before it grows!"
Several others nodded, their eyes gleaming not with duty, but with opportunity. If this force truly belonged to a forgotten house, then eliminating it could bring rewards—land, favour, influence.
Before the idea could fully take root, a thunderous impact shook the hall.
Titus Elvaren's hand struck the table with such force that cups rattled and papers scattered.
Silence fell.
Titus rose slowly from his seat. His tall frame was rigid, his expression carved from stone. The head of House Elvaren was already a man standing at the edge of political death, his house scheduled for disqualification within days. Yet in that moment, his presence dominated the chamber.
"You people have no honour," he said coldly. "And even less shame."
Gasps echoed.
"The eastern region was collapsing," Titus continued, his voice steady but sharp. "Villages were dying while you argued tariffs and inheritance laws. Our forces are bleeding at the front line, stretched thin, barely holding back annihilation."
He swept his gaze across the nobles.
"And now that someone—someone you do not control—has stabilized the situation for you, you call them a threat?"
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"The one easing your burden, buying this kingdom time… is who you wish to erase? Truly pathetic."
Shouts erupted instantly.
"He defends them!"
"He plots treason!"
Titus did not flinch.
"You want honesty?" he said. "Fine. I have twelve days left before my title is stripped. Twelve days. So let me speak freely."
His eyes burned.
"Most of you are hypocritical, scheming, greedy bastards. You know people are dying, yet you sit here calculating how to profit from the ashes. I despise you. I look down on you."
Fury rippled through the court.
"But remember this," Titus said, turning toward the throne. "When the front line finally breaks—and it will—the demons will not care about your wealth. King or peasant, noble or slave… you will all die the same."
He turned and walked away.
An elder screamed after him, threatening execution.
The king raised his hand.
"Enough," the king said. "Let him go."
The hall froze.
"What he spoke is truth," the king continued. "Whether you accept it or not."
Orders followed swiftly. Spies would be dispatched. The unknown force would be watched, not provoked.
But fear had already taken root.
—
That night, within the Elvaren estate, Titus sat alone in his study. His anger had cooled, leaving behind only grim certainty. When Mimi entered, he did not look up.
"Do you think it's him?" he asked.
Mimi Elvaren answered without hesitation.
"Yes."
The single word carried weight.
"The banner. The timing. The method," she said softly. "No noble army fights like that. And Daniel Bellhem was never ordinary."
Titus closed his eyes.
"If it is him," he murmured, "then the kingdom is blind to the storm it's provoking."
—
Far to the east, under a moonless sky, that storm was already moving.
Daniel sat astride Silver, the massive wolf's muscles coiled with terrifying strength beneath him. Silver's fur gleamed like liquid moonlight, eyes blazing with absolute dominance. Around them, the pack surged forward—one hundred and seventy wolves moving in flawless coordination.
Ahead lay the town of Setedel.
Smoke rose on the horizon.
A horde of demonic beasts—over a hundred—had emerged from the wilds, drawn by the scent of human life. Twisted bodies lumbered forward: horned abominations, scaled brutes, creatures stitched together by corruption and hunger. They howled as they advanced, confident in their numbers, confident in inevitable slaughter.
They never saw the wolves until it was too late.
Daniel raised a single hand.
The pack was released.
Silver's roar split the night.
The wolves exploded forward like a living avalanche.
They did not charge blindly. They flanked. They encircled. Smaller wolves harried and distracted, snapping at tendons and eyes. Larger ones slammed into demonic beasts with bone-crushing force, dragging them down in coordinated waves.
A horned brute reared back—only for three wolves to leap simultaneously, tearing out its throat before it could scream.
A scaled monstrosity crushed two wolves beneath its bulk—then froze as its head was ripped free by Silver himself.
Blood flooded the ground.
The demonic beasts tried to regroup, but panic shattered their formation. Every attempt to counterattack was smothered by numbers, speed, and ruthless precision. The wolves fought without mercy, without hesitation, as if death itself obeyed their command.
Daniel remained seated, calm and unmoving, crimson banner snapping behind him.
One by one, the beasts fell.
Their bodies were torn apart, devoured alive. Cores shattered between jaws, releasing surges of raw power that flowed instantly through the pack. Wolves howled as their bodies surged with strength—muscles thickening, eyes burning brighter, dominance deepening with every kill.
Within minutes, it was over.
Where a horde once stood, there was nothing left but bones, blood, and feeding wolves.
The power of the pack surged as one.
Setedel was saved.
And beneath the crimson banner, Daniel Bellhem watched silently as his army grew stronger with every corpse left behind.