Ludwig gripped the Soul Shackles with one hand, their chains faintly shimmering against the cold light spilling through the cracked windows. With his other hand, he hoisted Oathcarver, its brutal weight resting across his shoulder like an executioner's sentence in waiting. The greatsword's edge dragged along the manor floor, scraping over decayed marble and shattered tile as he stepped forward with calm, unnatural strength.
The werewolf—twice his size, twice his weight, and far more monstrous in build—was pulled like a corpse on a chain. Every few feet, its massive body hit another stair, jolting and bouncing with a sickening thud that echoed hollow through the dilapidated corridors of the Bastos Manor.
Yet Ludwig's pace never slowed.
He moved with the unshaken stride of one who carried not burden, but judgment.
