The air in the Great Hall of Lykandra Palace tasted of ozone, blood, and pulverized stone. Crimson tapestries depicting Fenrivar, the Eternal Guardian, hung in shredded ribbons from cracked walls. Shattered stained-glass littered the flagstones like fallen jewels, depicting hunts and coronations now rendered meaningless fragments under the gore-splattered moonlight stabbing through the ruined ceiling. This was the crucible. This was the culmination of another brutal Throne War.
And Alaric Banehallow, First Prince, Alpha Heir, was winning.
His breath tore through his lungs like fire, each gasp feeding the raging inferno within him. The curse, the Solhallow madness that haunted his bloodline, roared in his ears – a familiar companion now, a sharpening stone for his fury. Across the ravaged hall, Kaedor Ashfang, his cousin, his final rival, snarled, obsidian claws dripping Alaric's own blood. Kaedor, ever the brute, fought like a cornered beast – predictable, powerful, but ultimately… breakable.
Mine, Alaric thought, the word a feral growl in his mind. The throne. The kingdom. Her.
His eyes flickered for a bare instant to the figure near the shattered dais – Velryn Silverhowl. Moonlight caught the silver threads woven into her battle leathers, the intricate enchantments etched onto her vambraces. His Velryn. Fierce, skilled, beautiful even coated in dust and the grime of battle. Her presence was an anchor against the curse's tide, a promise of the future he fought for. Moments ago, her perfectly aimed lunar shard had shattered Kaedor's enchanted greave, giving Alaric this opening.
He surged forward, massive claws carving furrows in the stone floor. Let Kaedor have his Ashfang fury; Alaric possessed the refined strength of the royal line, honed by countless duels, sharpened by the curse's relentless edge. He met Kaedor's desperate lunge with a calculated parry, steel claws screeching against obsidian hardness. Sparks flew, illuminating the feral desperation in Kaedor's eyes. Good. Fear tasted sweet.
"It ends here, cousin!" Alaric roared, his voice amplified by the hall's broken acoustics. He slammed Kaedor back against a pillar, the stone groaning under the impact. Dust rained down. Kaedor coughed, spitting blood.
Finish it. The curse whispered, insidious and hungry. Tear out his throat. Claim your birthright.
Alaric sidestepped another wild swing, feeling the wind of it stir his matted fur. He was faster, smarter. He drove a clawed fist into Kaedor's ribs, rewarded by a sickening crunch and a strangled gasp. Kaedor staggered, momentarily winded, defenses dropping.
This was it. The final moment. He saw Velryn shift behind Kaedor, poised to strike, to ensure the kill. His heart swelled with savage triumph, with a possessive love that burned almost as hot as the curse. Together, they would rule. Together, they would master this blood-soaked legacy.
"Velryn! Now!" he bellowed, preparing his own finishing blow, a devastating uppercut aimed at Kaedor's exposed jaw.
He saw her move, saw the glint of moonlight on the silver enchantment forming between her hands. A binding rune – perfect for immobilizing Kaedor. Perfect for ending this.
But it wasn't aimed at Kaedor.
Time seemed to warp, slowing to a crawl even as his body surged forward with lethal momentum. The shimmering silver threads didn't lash towards Kaedor's back. They spiraled through the air like ethereal serpents… towards him.
His mind couldn't process it. It was wrong. A mistake. She'd misjudged the distance, the angle—
The silver strands struck his advancing arm, wrapping around his bicep with impossible speed and strength. They didn't cut, but they constricted, biting deep, instantly numbing the muscles. His arm, poised for the killing blow, locked in place, paralyzed mid-swing.
No. The thought was a sliver of ice piercing the furnace of his rage. No, she wouldn't.
He locked eyes with Velryn across the space cleared by his momentum. Her face, usually fierce and passionate, was a mask he didn't recognize. Not malice, not exactly. Something colder. Calculated. Was that… pity? Regret? It didn't matter. What mattered was the undeniable truth reflected in the unnatural stillness of his limb, in the path her magic had taken.
Kaedor, recovering faster than Alaric anticipated, saw the opening. Saw the binding. Saw the betrayal. A predatory grin split his bloody face.
Why? The question screamed in Alaric's mind, louder than the curse, louder than the roar of battle. Velryn? Why? Had the pressure broken her? Had Kaedor promised her something? Was this the curse twisting her too? Or was it simpler? Colder? Just… ambition?
His carefully constructed world, built on the assumptions of loyalty, love, and shared destiny, shattered like the stained glass beneath his feet. The pain wasn't the biting silver threads or the imminent threat from Kaedor. It was a ripping sensation in his chest, a hollow void where his trust in her had resided. The curse's paranoia, always lurking, surged forward not as rage, but as a sickening, vindicating certainty. He should have known. Trust was weakness. Love was a vulnerability.
He tried to wrench his arm free, roaring in frustration and disbelief, but the Silverhowl enchantment held fast, infused with Velryn's potent lunar magic. He was exposed, off-balance, his killing stroke ruined, his guard shattered by the one person he thought impervious to betrayal.
Kaedor didn't hesitate. There was no monologue, no gloating. Only ruthless efficiency. The Ashfang charged, low and fast, obsidian claws aimed not for the throat, but for the heart.
Alaric saw it coming. He saw the dark gleam of Kaedor's claws, saw the savage triumph in his rival's eyes, saw Velryn turn her face away slightly, unable, or unwilling, to watch the final moment her actions had wrought.
His last conscious thought wasn't of the throne, or the kingdom, or even the burning agony as Kaedor's claws punched through leather, mail, and flesh. It was the freezing, desolate echo of one shattered word:
Velryn.
Then, only darkness, and the sensation of falling into ash.