CHAPTER 83: A TWISTED GAME

After the battle, Kieran hobbled with Corrin and Ilyra to the crest overlooking the gorge. Behind them the sunrise was spilling gold along the slope. Below them, the battered line of his people came together in a circle—hands on shoulders, breathing in shared pain.

No healer could mend what had been inflicted.

Yet the bond was forged darker and stronger than ever.

Kieran rose, voice soft. "We will rebuild. We will push them back. We will end this invasion—for our homes, for Athena, for every life they’ve taken.".

Far across the sacred woods, in places the demon wolves did not tread, messengers continued to rush. Riders mounted from distant tribes now banded together—all witnessing the hope rekindled in that gorge circle.

But no one felt victory. Only survival.

Kieran’s gaze lifted toward the eastern sky, heart constricting with longing. Athena... what would she have done? He didn’t know—but he knew this:

He would not let this world fall without a fight.

The winds over the blackened hills howled like ghosts mourning a forgotten war.

Far from the desperate battle where Kieran fought with his wolves, deep within the old ruins of the fallen city—where the ground was cracked and strange glowing roots pushed through the broken stone—the king stood.

His cloak, regal and pristine white, fluttered around his boots, untouched by dirt despite the ruin around him. The demon wolves flanked him on either side, unnervingly silent, their yellow eyes glimmering faintly in the dark.

Before him, lying on the cold slab of rock like some offering to old gods, was Marcus—unconscious, bound by thick, pulsing black vines that moved ever so slightly, like they were breathing.

The king’s gloved hand lifted lazily, as if bored by the whole ordeal, while his eyes glittered with malicious calculation.

"Report," he said softly, the word a blade unsheathing in the stillness.

A cloaked figure knelt before him—a scout, thin and wiry, clothes smelling faintly of ash and rot. His head stayed bowed, body trembling faintly under the oppressive weight of his master’s attention.

"They resist, Your Majesty," the scout rasped. "The werewolves have rallied behind Kieran. They’re holding the eastern pass, but we’ve broken through the northern ridge. It’s only a matter of time."

The king hummed, something like amusement or annoyance—who could tell?—echoing behind the faint smile curling on his lips.

"And Athena?" he asked softly, stroking one of his ornate rings, the one with the dark stone pulsing faintly with otherworldly energy.

"No sign of her yet," the scout said quickly, too quickly.

The king tilted his head. "Yet?"

The scout flinched. "Forgive me, my king—I only mean we haven’t seen her."

At that, the king laughed—quiet, sharp, full of poison. "Fools. Wolves are always loyal to their illusions."

He walked forward, each step measured, boots scraping lightly over broken tile until he stood beside Marcus.

Marcus’s chest moved faintly, shallow breaths struggling beneath the weight of the enchanted vines. His jaw was bruised, lip split, but otherwise he looked unharmed.

The king crouched beside him, elegant as a snake folding itself in coils. He studied the unconscious man as though he were an art piece.

"Do you know," the king murmured, speaking not to the scout but to Marcus, "I once thought you were unimportant. Just another wolf in the endless mud. But you... you became close to her. Important to her."

His gaze sharpened, the poisonous silk of his voice twisting with venom.

"And so you became important to me. Something that I wasn’t expecting but it’s a good thing for me." In the King’s mind, he planned to exploit this opportunity wholeheartedly because he had noticed that Athena was easily influenced by matters of the heart.

Marcus shifted slightly, as though his body was trying to resist even while unconscious.

The king smiled coldly. "It’s always the same. Hearts and loyalty—such fragile little tools. That’s why I need them broken and weak."

He rose again, eyes on the horizon, where faint pillars of smoke drifted from distant battlefields.

"I want this rebellion crushed before she returns," he said, the cold in his voice sharp enough to slice bone. "Take the demon wolves. Circle around to the southern forests. Kieran won’t expect that flank."

The scout’s breath caught. "But, sire—the mountains—"

"Are not your concern," the king snapped, though his tone never rose above conversational. "They’ll come through eventually.

The demon wolves, as though sensing the shift in mood, stirred. Their claws scraped lightly over the stone, a low rumbling growl building in their throats.

"And Marcus?" the scout ventured carefully.

The king gave a serene smile. "Leave him. I like the symbolism. Their war hero, bound beneath their ruined capital... Let’s see how long their courage lasts."

For a heartbeat, it seemed like the very stones beneath them held their breath.

But as the king turned away, a faint noise broke the silence.

A soft, strained gasp.

Marcus.

His fingers twitched against the binding vines, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. His eyes fluttered weakly but remained closed, as though caught in the fog of nightmares.

The king tilted his head, intrigued. "Still fighting," he murmured, almost admiring. "Good. I prefer it that way."

He waved a dismissive hand at the scout. "Go."

The scout vanished into the shadows, the demon wolves loping behind him, disappearing into the ruined streets with predatory grace.

The king stood alone with Marcus, the strange glow of the vines pulsing faintly with each ragged breath the bound werewolf took.

He crouched again, this time whispering like a lover’s secret. "I wonder what she’ll do to save you if she’s able to come back."

Marcus’s body tensed, just faintly, some instinct trying to rise through the enchantment.

The king chuckled. "They always try to be a savior."

Above them, dark clouds gathered on the horizon, the first heavy drops of rain beginning to fall, hissing faintly against the smoldering stones.

The storm was coming. And in its shadow, everything would burn.

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