The gate screamed as it opened, a guttural wail like claws raking across bone, sending a shiver through the ranks of weathered warriors that their heavy furs and chainmail couldn't shield. Magnus Varik stood at the threshold, his jaw tight, silver-flecked eyes fixed on the black maw that loomed before them. No one spoke. The Citadel didn't invite—it devoured, drawing them in with a hunger that felt alive. They marched forward, blades drawn, boots pounding the frostbitten earth like a war chant swallowed by a void that hadn't known warmth or mercy in centuries. As the last man crossed, the gate slammed shut with a finality that tasted like damnation.
Inside, the silence was a lie. It thrummed with whispers too faint to decipher but heavy enough to claw at the mind. The walls oozed symbols no human hand had etched—glyphs that pulsed with a sickly glow, shifting from crimson to indigo to pitch. Magnus's longsword, etched with runes of old wolf-blood, twitched in his grip, as if it sensed the evil woven into the stone. He scanned the vast corridor, its ceiling arched like the ribs of some ancient beast, walls slick with something too red to be water. Every nerve in him screamed to turn back. But Magnus was no mere man. He was alpha, forged in blood and moonlight, and he carried the weight of the pack on his shoulders. He pressed on.
Behind him, Korr hefted his double-headed axe, growling a prayer to the Moon Mother in the rough tongue of the northern clans, each word a snarl. To their left, Veyne, the pack's sharpest tracker, moved low, her amber eyes slicing through the dark like a wolf on the hunt.
"Movement," she whispered, voice sharp. "Right flank. Something… skittering."
Magnus didn't pause. He tilted his blade, its runes flaring faintly, and stepped toward the unseen threat, trusting his pack to follow. They did. The Bloodfang Pack was no mere band of warriors—they were kin, bound by fang and fury. And the Citadel would taste their claws before the night was done.
Something darted along the wall—too quick, too silent. Then it attacked. Not one, but a swarm. Shadows tore from the stone like living smoke, their forms a grotesque mockery of wolves, with elongated limbs, eyeless sockets, and maws that screamed without sound. The first struck a young packmate, Tarek, its tendrils piercing his chest. He howled, his skin withering, fur graying, as the thing drained his life in moments, leaving a husk that crumbled to dust.
Korr bellowed and cleaved the creature with his axe, but it didn't bleed—it shrieked, a sound that scorched the air and melted stone before dissolving into ash. Magnus surged forward, his blade flashing, its runes blazing as he carved through two more. The sword hummed, alive with the old magic of his bloodline, reacting to the Citadel's curse. He didn't stop. The pack couldn't afford hesitation. The Citadel preyed on every breath, every doubt. And they'd already lost one.
They pressed deeper, stepping over Tarek's remains and the black stains of their kills. The corridor tightened, the air growing colder, heavier, clinging like the breath of a dying beast. The walls now bore faces—human, wolf, and something worse—trapped in the stone, their eyes following, weeping, snarling. One resembled Magnus's father, his expression frozen in betrayal. Magnus didn't falter, but his grip on the sword tightened, claws pricking his palm.
"Alpha," Veyne hissed. "Ahead."
Magnus raised a fist, and the pack froze. Beyond the corridor lay a vast chamber, its walls lit by sourceless flames that flickered like dying stars. At its center stood a throne of bone and twisted flesh, pulsing as if it breathed. Upon it sat a figure—neither man nor beast—bound in chains of rusted iron and thorned vines. Its mouth was sewn shut with sinew, its eyes sealed with wax that dripped like tears. It didn't move. But it saw.
The silence deepened, thick with menace. Magnus stepped forward, the air resisting him, heavy with ancient malice. He was no stranger to horror. He'd torn through vampire nests and burned demon altars. Whatever this was, it would not break him.
Another step, and the throne's occupant stirred—not physically, but in their minds.
"You come bearing steel. Pride. Doom," it whispered, its voice a blade of ice and grief. "You cannot fathom what you disturb."
Magnus's eyes narrowed. "Then enlighten me."
The walls laughed—a hollow, tortured sound from the stone faces, their jaws stretching wider. The throne pulsed. The chains creaked, spitting sparks of black fire. A young packmate, Darrek, stepped back, his claws scraping the floor. A fatal error.
The figure's head tilted, and the shadows answered.
Darrek's scream shattered the silence as he was yanked upward, his armor crumpling, his bones snapping. His flesh unraveled, fur and muscle peeling away until he burst into a cloud of blood and ash, leaving only his clawed gauntlets behind.
Magnus didn't blink. Rage burned hotter than fear.
"Enough," he growled, raising his sword. Its runes flared white, cutting through the dark. "Speak—or die."
The figure shuddered, and the floor cracked beneath it.
"You cannot kill what was never alive," it said. "But I will show you. You, Magnus Varik, carry the curse of the First Howl. Your blood is poison."
At his name, the chamber quaked, and a howl—not his own—echoed from somewhere deep within the Citadel. Magnus bared his teeth.
"You know nothing of my blood."
"I know its sin," it countered, the vines around its mouth twitching. "Your father's betrayal. That blade—it was forged in the blood of the First Wolf. It craves more than flesh."
The sword grew heavier, its hum turning ravenous. The chamber shook again. Two chains snapped, and the figure rose, its form twisting—a towering horror of fur, bone, and burning veins, its face splitting into three howling maws. Its wax-sealed eyes bled, and the floor beneath began to decay.
Korr charged, "Moon Mother, guide my wrath!"—his axe swinging. The thing caught him with a sound—a wail that shredded the air. Blood poured from Korr's ears, but he struck, his axe sinking into the creature's side. It laughed, savoring the wound.
Magnus moved—swift, lethal. His sword plunged into the creature's chest, runes exploding in a storm of white fire that scorched the stone. The beast staggered. The throne collapsed. The chains tightened, pulling it back—but it fought.
"I REMEMBER THE FIRST HOWL," it roared, its voice cracking the walls. "AND YOU, MAGNUS VARIK, WILL UNLEASH IT AGAIN."
Magnus snarled a word in the ancient tongue of the pack, and fire erupted from his blade, consuming the creature. When the flames died, it was gone. The chains lay shattered. The throne was rubble.
But the Citadel stirred.
Magnus turned, blood dripping from his fur, eyes glowing like molten silver.
"Veyne, scout ahead. The Citadel knows us now. And it's hungry."