Princess zetulah viridian POV;
Shadows slithered just beyond the torchlight, moving in slow, deliberate waves. Breathing. Watching. Hungry. The crumbling walls flickered, runes pulsing with an eerie, sickly heartbeat that seemed to sync with my own. And then—
"You should not have come."
The whisper wasn't a sound. It was a presence. A hundred dead voices layered over bone, each one carrying a warning that scraped across my soul.
Something stepped into the light—part wolf, part ghost. Its fur was smoke, its eyes fragments of shattered time, each gaze a crack in the very fabric of reality. My dagger slid free, its cold steel familiar in my hand, but my voice? Steady. Always steady. "Then tell us why we're here."
The thing tilted its head, its gaze piercing deeper than any blade could. It peeled back my lineage, layer by rotten layer, leaving me exposed. Vulnerable. Bare.
"Because the Golden Throne was never meant for the living."
Kaelith didn't move. Didn't blink. The guardian's voice scraped through the ruins, ragged like it was carved into the bones of the earth itself. "Before the houses. Before the bloodshed. The First Wolves ruled as four. Not one."
My throat tightened, the words a bitter taste on my tongue. "Impossible. The houses have always warred. We're made for conquest. We always have been."
Cold laughter echoed, the sound like ice cracking. "You were made to forget."
Light exploded. The vision hit like a punch to the gut—four wolves, radiant, united before a throne of gold and bone. Then fire. Betrayal. A crown shattered into jagged shards, splintering across the ages.
"Your ancestors splintered the kingdom," the guardian hissed, its voice a venomous whisper that burned through the air. "Now, you'll finish it."
Kaelith's fists flared with flames, the heat so intense it blurred the edges of reality itself. "Not if we burn the cycle first."
The phantom wolf bared teeth longer than my arm, the darkness in its eyes swallowing the light around it. "Then prove it."
The ruins came alive, waking like a beast from an ancient slumber.
Shadows tore free from the walls—beasts of memory, teeth glinting with old vengeance, their eyes burning with the hatred of a thousand forgotten years. The guardian dissolved into mist, its voice a fading echo in the darkness. "Survive… or join them."
My bones screamed as I shifted—too fast, too harsh. The ancient magic didn't care about pain. It tore through me, a force more brutal than any wound.
The first spirit lunged. Its claws slashed through the air, too quick, too deadly. Kaelith's fire roared to life, but it passed through the beasts like smoke. We fought—claws, fangs, desperation—but our blows had no weight, no substance. Every hit they landed? Real. Pain. Agony seared through my ribs like molten iron. My vision blurred, the world tilting on the edge of collapse.
And then—
"Kaelith! The runes!"
He grabbed my bleeding wrist, and our blood smeared across the symbols carved into the earth. The ground shuddered beneath us, as if the very earth itself was awakening to the truth. The runes blazed white, burning with a light that could blind the gods.
The guardian reappeared, its eyes almost… pleased. "You understand."
I shifted back, trembling, my body a map of bruises and blood. "This wasn't a tomb. It was a trap."
"A test," the guardian corrected, its form fading into the shadows. "And you passed."
The final door groaned open—a sound that echoed deep in my marrow, a reminder that the past was always waiting, buried beneath the weight of centuries.
And there it was. The sigil. Cracked gold, split into four jagged pieces. My legs locked. I wanted to run. I wanted to kneel. I wanted to scream, to breathe, but my body wouldn't obey.
Kaelith's whisper shattered the silence, frayed at the edges. "The First Wolves' symbol."
We reached for it—together, as if our fates had been sealed the moment our fingers brushed the cold, ancient metal. The instant we touched it—
Power. Not magic. Legacy. It poured into me, not as a blessing but as a curse—thousands of howls tore through my veins, the voices of every Viridian ancestor screaming for justice, for vengeance. Kaelith's eyes burned brighter, and I felt the wolves inside us—our wolves—didn't just rise. They remembered.
The guardian's voice softened, almost reverent. "You carry the will to remake the future. But will you?"
Kaelith met my gaze, and in that moment, I saw no hesitation. Only wildfire resolve. Only truth.
Oh, we'd survived. But worse—far worse—we'd unearthed the rot festering beneath the kingdom's lies. The houses warred over broken throne-shards, but we? We held the whole damn truth.
And outside those ruins? War waited. We were the spark that would set it all ablaze.
We climbed into the dusk, the sigil wrapped in cloth like a relic from the end of time. My wolf paced under my skin, restless, clawing at my bones for release.
But then—the battle-cries reached us. The sound of steel clashing, of men screaming, of lives already lost.
War hadn't paused. And now?
Now we carried a weapon sharper than any blade.
The truth.
The kingdom would bleed for it.
—-----------------------------------
The sun clawed its way over the horizon—red. Not poetic red. Not metaphorical. Blood. The kind that stains nightmares and clings under your fingernails. It was there in my bones, that crimson dawn. A warning. A curse. It whispered of death, of things worse than death. Of the end.
I stood on the battlements, wind tearing at my braid, biting at my skin like it was alive. Below, Viridian soldiers shifted like wounded animals. Their hands shook around their swords, like they could feel the pressure. We weren't ready. We'd never be. Not for this.
"They're faster than we thought," I whispered, the words hollow, swallowed by the roar of the battlefield below.
Solric's jaw clenched, grinding like he was chewing stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravel—rough, harsh. "They smell weakness. They're here to finish it."
I gripped my sword tighter. The First Wolves' symbol under my armor pressed against my chest—not heat, but pressure. Like a second heartbeat throbbing against my ribs. A reminder.
"Then we make them choke on it."
Emberclaw's army crested the ridge like a living wildfire. Banners snapped. Trebuchets groaned. Kaelith had warned me. But gods—he hadn't said it would look like this.
Or hurt this much.
I spotted him in the chaos. A flicker of gold armor amidst the inferno. Still wearing Emberclaw's crest, but his stance? It was pure rebellion, raw defiance. A warlord in the making, and I couldn't decide if I hated or wanted him for it.
The warhorn shattered the air.
And just like that—it began.
Stone screamed. Fire roared. I hit the ground hard, ears ringing. Move. Move. My hands scrambled for purchase, my blade slick with sweat and blood. The air tasted of charred flesh. Blood streaked my cheek—warm, metallic, wrong. Soldiers blurred past me. Ours? Theirs? Didn't matter anymore.
Then—
A flash of steel. Too fast. I never saw it coming.
Pain exploded in my side. Hot. Raw. Insistent.
"Ah—shit—"
I stumbled, clutching the wound, blood seeping through my fingers. Behind me, a voice slid through the smoke like oil:
"House Moriba plays the long game, princess."
I whirled, instincts screaming, but saw only shadows. My breath came in ragged bursts.
Solric appeared, his face drained of color. "Zetulah! You're bleeding—"
"Fine," I hissed. It wasn't fine. But I forced myself upright, pushing against the world that tilted with every step. My legs trembled like they might give way beneath me.
But I stayed standing.
Through the smoke, I saw him—half-wolf, fire licking at his claws. His eyes were molten, raw fury poured into every strike. He was charging at Vornar, the Emberclaw general, who stood like a god of war, his molten blade gleaming with death.
"Should've stayed dead, boy," Vornar growled, his voice dripping with contempt.
Kaelith blocked the strike. Barely. He skidded back, boots carving trenches in the ash. His body didn't flinch, but his face… it spoke of a pain deeper than any wound.
"I'm better than my father," he snarled, fire curling around his shoulders, a cloak of vengeance.
Vornar grinned, teeth sharp like a predator. "Good. I want the throne broken."
They clashed. Steel shrieked, ringing with the promise of blood. Arcs of crimson stained the air.
I watched, throat tight, heart pounding.
And then, the walls began to crumble.
Smoke choked the sky. My people's screams cut deeper than any blade, twisting my insides until I could hardly breathe.
We were losing.
The symbol under my armor pulsed again—not just power this time—purpose. It wasn't meant to be hidden. It wasn't meant to be a secret anymore. It was meant to be unleashed.
I ripped off my gauntlet, the blood dripping from my hand. I pressed my palm to the cracked stone, feeling the bones of the earth beneath me hum with a power older than anything we could comprehend.
And I called.
The First Wolves answered.
A howl tore from my throat—mine, theirs, ours. It was a sound that shattered the very air, a cry so raw it made the world tremble.
Time froze.
Every head turned.
Kaelith paused mid-swing. Vornar staggered.
Enemy. Ally. All hesitated.
I stood in the eye of the storm, hair wild, my sigil blazing through torn steel.
"ENOUGH!"
The ground split beneath me. Wind howled—carrying the voices of wolves long dead. Power surged. Not for conquest. But for unity. For something deeper, something ancient that we had forgotten.
Silence fell.
Real silence. No clang of steel. No screams.
Even the fire held its breath.
I stepped forward, blood soaking my greaves. "You fight for shards," I said, voice steady, cutting through the air like a blade. "We hold the truth."
Vornar stared at me, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. Kaelith moved to my side, still smoldering, a warrior unbroken.
And there it was—fear in Emberclaw's eyes.
I wasn't just a princess anymore.
I was the storm.
The moment hung in the air, fragile, like glass.
Then—
War horns echoed again.
Another army crested the hill. Not red. Not green.
Moriba purple.
Kaelith's hand found mine, his grip tight. "They'll come for you now."
I didn't look away from the approaching storm. "Let them."
He didn't smile. Didn't need to.
The truth sat heavy in my palm. Sharp. Ready.
The horns blared again.
Moriba's banners snapped in the wind, their colors sharp as daggers.
I closed my eyes.
The game had just begun.