The fortress walls glowed rust-red in the dusk, like scabs dried over old blood. Raine leaned against a crumbling parapet, the burn in his right arm still pulsing—the dark-red patterns left by his receding scales throbbed with each heartbeat, some ancient brand etched into his flesh.
"Captain, water." The young soldier offered a leather canteen, his hands trembling. His name was Aiden, Raine now recalled—a green recruit who'd barely held a sword straight on his first day.
Raine reached for the canteen. His right hand shook violently, water splashing on his breastplate. It sizzled into steam—his body temperature was anything but human.
"Fuck the Holy Light," Brander spat, tossing a rotten log into the fire. "Those beasts retreated too fast. Something's wrong."
"Because they were summoned." The rasp came from Kassan, the lone archer huddled in the corner. Her tribal tattoos peeked above the cloak collar—markings from northern nomads. "I've seen beast-tamers use bone whistles... But this time, those wolves had runes in their eyes."
The flames cast jagged shadows across the survivors' faces. Twenty men had ridden out on patrol. Seven remained. Josep's body lay wrapped in a blood-crusted cloak in the corner, and no one dared lift the cloth for a second look.
Brander kicked the fire apart, embers spraying at Raine's boots. "What fucking secrets are you hiding?" The veteran pressed a dagger to Kassan's throat. "Northern savage. Explain this 'summoning' bullshit!"
"Enough!" Raine seized Brander's wrist. Scale patterns flickered in the firelight. The old soldier grunted, dropping the blade as Kassan scrambled away gasping.
"We've lost thirteen men," Raine growled, his voice like iron scraping stone. He exposed his palm—the fissure oozing black blood. "I want answers too. Why did Father Oleg drive those beasts? Why is my body...?"
A howl cut him off—not a beast's snarl, but a melodic call echoing through the mist. A signal.
Everyone froze.
It wasn't the bone-eaters. Their footsteps crunched like gravel underfoot, but this… this was heavier. Deliberate.
Brander's thumb nudged his sword free. "Fuck me, I knew those black-robed priests were up to—"
The wall exploded.
Not shattered. Not broken. It was as if some colossal force had ripped the stones apart from within, sending debris raining into the room. Raine rolled through the dust, screams ringing in his ears. His back slammed into something warm, and then hot blood splashed across his neck.
"Aiden!" Raine crawled toward the young soldier pinned under rubble, only to find a broken spear protruding from his chest. The boy's lips moved, frothing black-purple—exactly like Josep's death throes.
Two golden points of light pierced the smoke.
Not a beast's eyes—not entirely. Too sharp. Too human. And yet, undeniably hungry.
"Down!" Raine roared, his right hand igniting with crimson fire before he could stop it.
The werewolf's claws were a hair's breadth from his throat when the dragonfire erupted.
This wasn't ordinary flame. It coiled around the creature's left shoulder like a living thing, flesh sizzling. The werewolf—because now Raine could see it clearly, a monstrous hybrid of man and wolf—howled, a sound that near shattered eardrums, and recoiled.
But Raine didn't fare much better. As the flames died, his knees buckled. Something cold slithered through his veins, like his very life force had been drained.
"Fall back!" Raine shoved Kassan toward the breach. The archer was hacking at rubble trapping Brander's leg when she froze—the werewolf feinted at Raine, then swung at her exposed neck.
Raine lunged. No dragonfire this time—just brute force slamming into the creature. His shoulder popped with a sickening crunch, but Kassan's arrow found the werewolf's right eye.
"Fuck!" The creature roared in perfect human rage. It yanked the arrow free, viscous fluid dripping. "I hate fucking archers!"
The werewolf backed into the shadows, teeth bared, smoke curling from its seared shoulder. Its eyes locked onto Raine, and a low, almost human chuckle grated from its throat.
"Dragon whelp," it rasped, voice like sandpaper. "What the fuck are you?"
Raine didn't answer. His vision blurred, the fire in his hand flickering. Brander lay motionless nearby. Kassan was dragging the old soldier toward the exit.
"Take him." Raine pushed Brander toward Kassan. The veteran's leg bent unnaturally, yet his grip on the sword remained ironclad.
The werewolf moved suddenly—but not to attack. It crouched, muscles taut, as if torn between pouncing and running.
A new horn blared—not the Church's brass call, but a shrill, wailing tone. In three years guarding Iron Anvil Fortress, Raine had never heard its like.
The werewolf's ears pricked, nostrils flaring. "Lucky bastard," it growled. With one last look at Raine, it vanished into the fog.
Kassan gripped Raine's cloak. "That direction..." She trembled. "The Corpse Gulch. Where they dumped last year's plague victims."
Raine slumped to the ground, the fire in his hand snuffing out. He stared at his palm—a blackened fissure split the skin, as if it had been burned through and forcibly healed.
Brander groaned, rolling onto his side. "Fuck me… Did that thing just talk?" He spat out a broken tooth, grinning wildly. "Better chatter than the whores at camp."
Kassan lifted Aiden's canteen. Black-red sludge seeped out. "Wolf's blood," she sniffed. "Same stench as Josep's wounds."
Raine didn't answer. His gaze drifted to the corner, where a tuft of silver-gray fur clung to the stones, matted with blood.
More horns answered in the distance, a cacophony of mimicking cries.
"They're learning," Kassan whispered. "My grandfather said creatures tainted by dark magic... they mimic their prey."
The horn sounded again, closer this time.