The Kansani were still howling when the senator stepped into the yard.
Not a war-chief. Not a centurion. A man in long crimson robes, edged in tarnished gold thread, with the calm of someone who'd never held a sword but held the men who did by the throat. He didn't speak loud, didn't need to. The battlefield made way for him like blood retreating from a blade.
He walked through the dueling ground as if the puddles of blood were nothing more than rainwater, his sandals clicking softly on the stone. No guards flanked him. No soldiers moved to protect him. He moved alone, in the kind of silence only power could conjure.
I was still catching my breath, ribs tender, skin slick with stimpak sweat and half-dried blood, when he stopped in front of Jorta—still braced upright, injured but unbowed.
The senator inclined his head just enough to be polite. "The terms have been fulfilled. The Blade of the East has fallen, witnessed by both banners, without deception or intervention."
He folded his hands behind his back and continued, voice even.
"As agreed, the Legion will not cross into Kansani territory for five years. No legions. No annexations. No imperial flags beyond the old line. The border stands."
Jorta gave no reply—just held his gaze like a mountain judging the wind.
The senator went on, tone now as sharp as a scalpel. "Furthermore, any force that flies the colors of New Rome without authorization—deserters, zealots, splinters, or outlaws—shall be considered rogue. They are no longer protected by our law or our name. The Kansani may deal with them as they see fit."
That got murmurs. From both sides.
The senator turned—not to leave, but to look at me. Really look. I was still smeared in Lanius' blood, stimpak lines still burning down my veins, my helmet gone, my eyes too dark to look entirely human anymore.
He studied me with the practiced detachment of a man used to reading threats in human form.
Then he nodded.
Slight. Measured. Almost... approving.
"You've made an impression," he said. "Let's see what becomes of it."
And just like that, he turned and walked back across the yard. No guards. No fear. Just the rhythm of someone who already knew the war he came to stop had only paused.
The Kansani didn't cheer this time. Not yet.
I stared at the man's back. At the ripple he left in his wake. And I felt it—that itch in my skull. The kind that meant Terra had just moved another piece on the board.
Five years.
That wasn't a treaty.
That was a clock.
I could feel the pattern threading through it already. Five years was too clean. Too exact. Just enough time to finish what I had to do in the West. Just enough time for Maxus and Valeria to come of age. Just enough time for the world to forget the last war and start hungering for the next.
Terra had built another fuse.
And now I had to race it.
Because if the Legion was cooling down, it meant the Blightlands were about to boil. If GAIA's systems didn't come online—if I didn't fix the Horizon half of this bleeding, bastardized crossover—then when that five-year window slammed shut, everything would ignite.
Nemesis. Valeria. Maxus. The East, the West.
All of it, including who knew what would come crashing down on me all at once.
I flexed my hands. Still sore. Still twitching from the stimpak surge. The blood on my knuckles was already drying into rust.
Five years.
And the world would burn again.
Unless I got there first.
The march back to Ironwood Grove took a day—longer than it should've, even with the adrenaline still burning under our skins. I walked most of it in a daze, surrounded by cheers and war songs, but the noise barely touched me. My hands throbbed with every heartbeat—an echo of the fight that hadn't quite left my body. The stimpaks had sealed the damage, but I could feel it in the joints. Like my bones were arguing with each other. Or rebuilding themselves without reading the instructions.
By the time we hit the gates, I was barely standing.
They didn't cheer when we entered. They saw. And sometimes, that's louder than noise.
Sula walked beside me, saying nothing. Gildun had peeled off already, muttering about ale and gear repairs. Jorta was under guard watch—still recovering, still brooding. And me?
I went straight to the clinic.
Curie had been waiting.
"I'm surprised you're still upright," she said, voice clipped but calm. "Please, remove what's left of your armor and sit. Gently. No heroics."
She had me in her chair before I could crack a joke.
The second the chestplate came off, she hissed.
Not a theatrical sound. A clinical one. Concern edged in calculation.
"Mon dieu…" she muttered, scanning my arms with a precision scanner rig she'd salvaged and retooled herself. "Fracture lines. Micro-tears. Ligament distortion along the second and third metacarpals…"
She trailed off, already moving, fingers dancing over her interface.
I blinked slowly. "So… bad?"
"Catastrophic," she said, with maddening calm. "And yet fixable."
Her mechanical arms buzzed to life, retracting one by one as she prepared tools, sponges, and bone-knitters.
Sula appeared in the doorway. Silent. Watchful.
Curie didn't look away from her work. "He will need surgery," she said flatly. "Reinforced cast-structuring, guided reformation via pulse-mapping, and nerve sheathing while the bone reknits."
I raised an eyebrow. "Thought the stimpaks handled it."
"They stabilized the structure," Curie replied. "Not repaired it. Had you waited, you'd have lost motor function permanently."
Then, finally, she looked at me—and her voice softened. Just a fraction.
"You did the right thing," she said. "Using the stimpaks when you did. Brutal. Desperate. But correct."
That meant more than I expected.
Then she turned her head slightly—toward Sula—and spoke again. This time with dry, surgical edge.
"And you." Her tone made Sula straighten.
"You had best think very carefully about marrying this boy. Because at the rate he's going, you'll be a widow by thirty."
Sula choked on her reply, flushed hard, then looked like she was preparing a retort that might end in violence.
I just blinked at Curie. "Wow. That was... direct."
Curie shrugged. "I do not waste words. You break yourself for everyone else. Someone must speak sense."
I opened my mouth to reply, but Curie was already pressing a cold patch to my neck. I barely felt the needle. Just the chill. Then the heavy drag of sleep tugging down my spine.
"Sedative?" I muttered, vision blurring.
Curie nodded. "Custom mix. No side effects. Do not resist."
I didn't.
When I woke up, the clinic was quiet. The lights dimmed to a soft amber. I blinked slowly, brain swimming through the last trails of the sedative haze.
My hands were wrapped in thick cast-sleeves—each one structured with a thin metallic brace, braided Kansani leather, and pulse-thread sensors blinking softly near the wrist.
Curie floated nearby, stirring some medical paste in a pot..
"You're awake," she said, without looking up. "Good."
I flexed my fingers.
Couldn't.
But the pressure was stable. Secure.
Curie finally met my eyes. "You'll be fine. A week, maybe ten days if you overexert. Do not overexert."
I nodded.
She watched me a moment longer. Then her voice softened again. "You didn't just win that duel, Rion. You survived it. And that, I think, may be rarer."
I leaned my head back against the cot and let the weight of the room settle.
Five years of peace. One week to recover.
And then I had to move.
Because the next war was already stirring—far away, in broken lands where machines still screamed and gods wore metal skin.
I heard the celebration before I saw it.
Laughter. Shouting. Drums thumping with rhythms that were equal parts war cry and dancebeat. Something crashed in the distance—wood, maybe. Or a table.
I leaned against the doorframe of the clinic, arms still braced in cast-sleeves, and stepped into the dusk.
Ironwood Grove was alive.
Not just alive—roaring.
The center square had transformed into a full-blown festival. Fires roared in long pits. Smoke curled into the sky like a signal to the gods. Someone was pounding on a hide-drum that had to be older than half the town. A wrestling pit had formed near the central totem—two Ashmarked locked in a bear-grip grapple while a third banged on a shield and yelled encouragement in the form of insults.
There was drinking. Lots of it. Sula's clan had cracked open their fermented bloodroot barrels. Some of the Ironbone were already singing off-key, slurring verses of the "Jun Roars Still" chant with creative new profanity. A group of Ashmarked had formed a circle to dance—leaping, stomping, moving in ways that blurred the line between celebration and martial display.
And yeah.
I saw a couple having sex on a rooftop.
Just... going for it. In full view. A blanket, a firepot for warmth, and not a damn bit of shame. One of them even raised a hand and waved when they noticed me looking.
I blinked and looked away.
Five bison had been slaughtered. I counted ten deer carcasses hanging from hooks near the smokehouse. Birds too—dozens, probably. And the prairie dog population? Gone. Wiped out. Someone had clearly found two whole colonies and turned them into skewers.
The smell of roasted meat, spiced roots, and charcoal made my stomach curl with need. I hadn't realized how empty I was until that moment. Hunger hit like a freight train.
I was still absorbing it all when I noticed the piñata.
At first I thought I was hallucinating.
But no. It was real.
Dangling from a tall spear lashed between two posts, a misshapen effigy swayed in the breeze. It was made from parchment, layered leather scraps, bent twigs, and rough cloth—stitched together in an almost grotesque caricature of Lanius. Someone had exaggerated the helmet. Curled the paper beard. Even drawn a crude scowl on the face with what looked like charcoal and berry paste.
A child—maybe five or six—was winding up with a stick as tall as they were.
Smack.
The piñata swayed. A group of kids cheered.
"Is that…" I started aloud.
"Yeah." A familiar voice to my left. Dry. Smooth. Threaded with a smile.
I turned.
Raul was leaning against the wall nearby, sipping from a clay cup. He'd swapped his usual nothing-but-blood-and-burns look for something new—still wearing his Vault jumpsuit, but now paired with a half-mask painted in Día de los Muertos style. White skull base, stylized teeth, bright red and green flourishes curling up the sides like flowered vines.
He noticed me staring.
"Made it myself," he said, tapping the edge of the mask. "Kids were gettin' a little nervous around my face. Figured I'd ease them in."
I raised an eyebrow. "So you... introduced sugar-fueled violence to a warrior society?"
Raul chuckled and took another sip. "They were already halfway there. I just gave it structure."
The piñata cracked open on the third hit. Simple wrapped cloth bundles spilled out—jerky, sunflower seeds, dried nuts, a few cubes of hardened fruit paste. The kids descended like a pack of hungry raptors. One of them screamed with joy after getting what I assumed was the jackpot: something that looked vaguely sweet and vaguely chewable.
Raul watched with a rare, soft smile.
"Sometimes it's the simple things," he said.
I nodded slowly. "Closest thing to candy I'll probably see until Meridian."
He gave me a sidelong glance. "Then you better savor the sight. Won't be long before the next war finds you."
We stood there in silence for a moment—just watching the firelight flicker across painted faces and painted walls. Bone charms rattled in the wind. Somewhere in the square, someone screamed about losing a bet. Meat sizzled. Laughter rolled like thunder.
Peace had come to the American heartland.
Raul and I leaned against the wall, cups in hand, letting the celebration breathe around us. The air was thick with woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the kind of laughter that came from people who knew how close they'd been to dying yesterday.
I took another sip, watching a group of Ironbone try to outdrink each other while an elder beat a drum so hard I thought the hide would split.
And then it hit me.
I blinked. Looked at Raul.
"Raul… are the Kansani just rednecks who use bows and spears instead of guns?"
Raul froze mid-sip. Slowly lowered his cup.
We stared at each other as the thought settled.
And then we both looked back at the festival.
The signs were all there.
They used any excuse to throw a party. Drank like it was an Olympic sport. Half the celebration was barbecue. The Ironbone were always "improving" something with whatever parts they could salvage—half genius, half insanity. And, of course, there was the whole anti-government, "we'll die before we bow to the Legion" streak running through all of them.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "How the hell did I not figure that out sooner?"
Raul snorted into his drink. "Guess that makes you the city boy getting roped into a shotgun wedding 'cause he knocked up the pretty farm girl."
I spat my drink halfway across the street. "Raul! Don't do that!"
He laughed, the mask shifting over his grin. "What? Did I hit a nerve?"
"I haven't even slept with Sula," I blurted.
That made him pause. Tilt his head. "Why not?"
I shrugged. "We're too young."
Raul stared at me like I'd just announced I didn't believe in gravity. "This is the first time I've ever heard a young man not want to dive under the covers with a pretty girl."
I gave him a look. "Excuse me for having Old World values."
He smirked. "Is that what you're going with?"
I sighed and took another drink, not dignifying that with an answer.
Because knowing Raul, if I gave him an inch, he'd turn it into a mile—and then gift-wrap it in innuendo for Sula to find.
Raul was still smirking at me when he took another slow sip from his cup, eyes drifting over the firelit crowd.
"You know," he said after a moment, "I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop with you."
I glanced at him. "Meaning?"
He shrugged. "Legion taught me the hard way — a lotta folks act friendly 'cause they want somethin'. My brains. My hands. My history. Sooner or later, they all put on the show… then the knives come out."
I didn't say anything, just let him keep talking.
"But you?" He chuckled softly. "You're too much of a dumbass to fake it this long."
I frowned. "Uh, thanks?"
He waved me off. "I mean it. You've been straight with me since day one. No deals. No manipulation. Just… treating me like a person, even when I was being a miserable old bastard about it."
He set his cup down, the firelight catching the painted teeth of his mask. "Guess what I'm saying is… you've got my trust, kid. Not something I hand out much anymore."
Before I could reply, my Focus pinged softly in the corner of my vision.
[Perk Gained: Raul's Favor]
Once per week, you may fully restore one piece of gear to perfect working order. Ammo feeds reset, barrels re-bored, blades re-honed, armor reforged.
I couldn't help the grin tugging at my mouth. "Huh. That's… a hell of a thing."
Raul just shrugged again. "Don't waste it. And don't make me regret it."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said.
We stood there a while longer, watching the Kansani dance, drink, and argue over who'd stolen whose elk rib. Somewhere nearby, the Lanius piñata had been reduced to an unrecognizable pulp.
I was about to ask Raul what he meant by "don't waste it" when a familiar hand clamped onto my shoulder.
Sula.
She didn't say a word — just hooked her fingers into my collar and started pulling me toward the open square where the drumming was hitting some kind of thunder-god tempo.
"Wait, wait, I can't—" I started, but she was already yanking me into the press of bodies.
The cast sleeves on my hands meant I couldn't grab, brace, or escape without looking like a complete ass, so my tactical retreat options were zero.
And just like that, I was in it.
The Kansani were moving in a loose, circling wave — stomping, spinning, swinging each other with wild grins. Fires roared at the edges, casting everything in gold and shadow. The air smelled like woodsmoke and venison fat.
Sula slid in front of me, one eyebrow raised. "Well?"
I tried to mirror the steps I saw around me. It didn't go well.
Actually, it went terribly.
Turns out, despite all my talents — fighting, shooting, climbing, improvising with explosives — dancing was the one thing that could make me feel like a malfunctioning machine.
Sula lasted maybe five seconds before laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth. "Rion," she gasped, "I have seen you dismantle three armed men in seconds. And yet here you are, moving like a Sawtooth with three broken legs."
"That's generous," I muttered.
She grinned and stepped closer. "Alright. Picture we're sparring."
"…what?"
"Just picture it," she said. "Don't think. Just move. Like you would in a fight. Follow my lead."
I frowned but tried it — watching her footwork like I was reading an opponent, matching the shifts in her hips, the turns of her shoulders.
And… it worked.
A little.
I still felt like an idiot, but my body started moving without the constant mental math. Step, pivot, sway, like I was trying to cut off her angle in a sparring ring.
The music swelled. She spun, and I actually managed to time the turn without tripping over someone else's boots.
Sula's smile softened, even as the firelight danced in her eyes. "See? Not so hard."
"Easy for you to say," I said, but I didn't stop moving.
I was just starting to find a rhythm when two strong arms draped themselves over my and Sula's shoulders from behind, pulling us close in a way that was equal parts friendly and very deliberate.
"About time," Ubba said, her voice thick with amusement. "The two of you finally do something that isn't rushing headfirst into another fight. You know, a relationship is supposed to be more than just blood and bruises."
Sula stopped mid-step, fixing her with a look. "I like fighting. A relationship where we spar or fight side by side? That's my ideal."
Ubba threw her head back and laughed. "Knew you'd say that. I was just fucking with Rion."
I tried to back out of the conversation, but she wasn't done.
Her gaze slid to me, grin wide. "Still, I'm happy for you. And a little disappointed Sula got to you first."
Sula arched an eyebrow. "Ubba—"
"But hey," Ubba went on, eyes glinting, "if you ever want to share—"
"Ubba!" Sula's warning was sharp enough to cut steel.
The Ironbone just laughed harder, the sound rolling like a drumbeat over the music.
Then her attention was pulled toward the wrestling pit. A particularly beefy Kansani had just body-slammed his opponent so hard the ground shook.
Ubba's grin turned predatory. "Now if you'll excuse me…"
She peeled her arms off us and strode toward the pit. As the victor was still catching his breath, she slapped him on the ass hard enough to make him jump, then crooked a finger in a very clear follow me motion.
And, judging by the way he scrambled to obey, he didn't need to be told twice.
I shook my head. "She's… consistent."
Sula smirked. "That's one word for it."
We went back to moving with the music, but it was a little harder to keep the beat while picturing Ubba's idea of "fun."
...
Elsewhere, as the Grove Celebrated...
The windswept dueling ground had fallen silent.
No war chants. No footsteps. Just ash and scorched stone.
And a wolf.
It was massive—shoulders nearly level with a man's chest, its fur midnight black save for the snowy white that bloomed across its paws, chest, and underbelly. The creature moved with the quiet grace of something born for the hunt. Not a sound beneath its paws. Not a breath wasted.
It had arrived alone.
The scent had pulled it.
At first, the smell of blood—the bitter, metallic tang of a warrior's end. The wolf sniffed it cautiously, snout twitching as it traced the trail to the spot where Lanius had fallen. The scent was heavy with rage and smoke and death.
But that wasn't the one that stopped it.
A second trail lingered.
Fainter. Older.
Familiar.
The wolf froze, nose twitching as it processed the scent clinging to the torn gravel and scorched grass. Its ears perked. Eyes widened. And then—its tail began to wag.
Not slow.
Rapid. Excited. Joyful.
Memories surged—raw and buried.
Of small hands and soft voices. Of being cradled against a chest and rocked like a child. Of laughter and warmth and the tickle of a beard brushing against its ears. The scent on the ground didn't just smell like a person.
It smelled like home.
The wolf's body shook once, as if trying to dislodge something inside itself. But the emotions wouldn't fall away. They rose—fierce, alien, half-forgotten. Love. Loyalty. The need to run to someone. To protect them. To belong. Instinct started falling away and his mind started rising to the surface.
But as the mind returned memories of pain came.
Dark rooms.
Gloved hands.
Knives and needles and the stink of antiseptic and solder.
Men in lab coats, flanked by giants in black armor, bearing the letter E across their chests. Made him scream. Breaking his bones and rebuilding them. Torn away the pet and forged a weapon.They made him large. Strong. A marvel, they called him. A success. No one had asked what he had wanted to be.
He remembered screaming.
He remembered crying.
And no one came.
But now… now the scent had returned.
His scent.
The wolf's snout twitched again, as if to be sure. But there was no doubt. The smell belonged to the man—the one who had given it a name once, back when it had been small enough to fit in two arms and bark instead of roar.
The creature—beast and memory both—sat down slowly, tail thudding against the dirt.
Its golden eyes stared out toward the west.
Toward the place where the scent had gone.
And for the first time in years, the metal in its bones did not ache. Not in grief. Not in rage.
But in hope.
Something old was stirring behind those eyes.
Not the weapon they had made.
But the dog that had loved.
The stirrings of memory—the wagging tail, the soft eyes, the ghost of a name—flickered like a candle in a storm.
And then a foul scent of the Blight and rotten meat flush the scent and memory of gentler times away.
The scent originated from the edge of the stone ridge, slinking from the shadowed hills on thunder-quiet feet. Two yellow eyes cut through the dark like fire through paper, glowing with predatory hunger. The starlight framed it in broken silhouette—a monstrous shape, low-slung, broad, armored in muscle and scars.
A Deathclaw.
Fully grown. Scaled like rusted steel, talons dragging lines into the gravel as it stepped into the light of the ruined dueling ground. Its head turned slowly, nostrils flaring.
It had caught the scent.
And in an instant, everything changed.
The wolf's ears flattened. His tail stiffened. The gentle tremble of affection that had briefly surfaced vanished beneath a rising growl—a deep, gurgling, teeth-rattling sound pulled from the base of something ancient and violated.
The Wolf Lord awoke.
Gone was the loyal pet. Gone was the warmth of memory.
What remained was fury. Pain. Rage given form in fangs and muscle and engineered sinew.
The Deathclaw stepped forward.
The Wolf Lord rose to meet it.
His hackles bristled. Shoulders bunched. He opened his jaws and bared his gleaming metal-laced teeth, a distorted snarl ripping from his throat like a machine caught mid-scream. The Deathclaw paused for half a second, its nostrils twitching—registering the difference.
This wasn't prey.
This was a rival.
They began to circle.
Each heavy step mirrored the other—an echo of the dance that had taken place a day earlier, when two warriors had circled in this very place, waiting for the first strike to fall.
But these were no men.
This was the bloodborne ballet of monsters.
Claws dug into soil. Teeth gnashed. Neither blinked. The Deathclaw let out a low, guttural hiss as its tail curled tight for balance.
The Wolf Lord's mouth opened wide.
And he roared.
It wasn't just sound—it was grief. Betrayal. The scent of him—the man he remembered—had been buried by this intruder's stink. Replaced. Overwritten.
The last warm tether to his past… gone again.
And so he howled—not in mourning.
But in wrath.
The Deathclaw struck first.
A blur of rusted scales and clawed fury, it lunged low, talons sweeping out in a hooked arc meant to gut anything foolish enough to stand in front of it. The ground tore open under the force, stone shards skipping across the dueling ground.
The Wolf Lord wasn't there.
He moved like a shadow cut free from its source — a sidestep, low and coiled, teeth snapping toward the Deathclaw's exposed flank. The bite landed hard, metal-laced fangs punching through scale, tasting blood.
The Deathclaw bellowed, the sound rolling across the hills like thunder. It twisted, backhanding with an arm thick as a tree trunk. The blow caught the Wolf Lord in the ribs and launched him sideways into the ridge wall with a bone-jarring crack. Dust rained from the impact.
The Deathclaw advanced — slow, deliberate, knowing its strength would win if it could keep its prey pinned.
But the Wolf Lord wasn't prey.
He sprang before the Deathclaw's next swipe, claws raking across the monster's face, blinding one eye in a spray of hot blood. His speed was unnatural — each movement an engineered surge, tendons reinforced with threaded alloy, lungs pumping like a forge bellows. He darted away before the Deathclaw's counterblow could land, paws silent even on the torn gravel.
The Deathclaw's tail lashed, catching him across the hip. The Wolf Lord stumbled, pain flaring through muscle and metal alike. The Deathclaw was on him instantly, jaws closing over his shoulder with enough force to break stone.
The Wolf Lord howled — not in surrender, but in rage. His jaws found the Deathclaw's throat, biting deep. He tasted the wild in its blood — something raw, untamed, pure.
The Deathclaw ripped free, chunks of fur and flesh hanging from its jaws. Blood soaked the Wolf Lord's chest.
They circled again.
The Deathclaw was stronger, built by nature to rule the food chain. Every muscle in its body was designed to end lives and drag them into silence.
The Wolf Lord was faster, built by cruel men who had stripped him of choice and remade him for conquest. His body wasn't born — it was engineered for war. Each leap was calculated for killing angles, each strike honed by the ghosts of handlers who had taught him to break without hesitation.
The Deathclaw feinted right, then drove left, tail whipping forward like a hammer. The Wolf Lord vaulted over it, landed on the Deathclaw's back, claws digging for purchase. He tore at the base of its neck, ripping scales free in sheets.
The Deathclaw bucked like a hurricane, slamming him into the ground again and again until the stone cracked beneath them.
The Wolf Lord rolled away just before the killing stomp could land, scrambled up the ridge wall with claws gouging deep into the rock.
The Deathclaw roared, charging after him.
The Wolf Lord launched himself from the wall, all his weight and rage behind the leap, colliding with the Deathclaw mid-charge. They tumbled in a blur of fur, scale, claws, and teeth — a storm given form, the air alive with snarls and the stink of blood.
They broke apart, both bleeding, both panting steam into the cold night.
And then, without warning, they charged again.
Two weapons — one born, one made — locked in the only language they both understood.
They collided again, claws raking, teeth snapping — the Deathclaw's bulk hammering against the Wolf Lord's speed. Blood slicked the dueling ground, and still neither yielded.
The Deathclaw lunged low, jaws aiming for the Wolf Lord's throat. This time, the wolf didn't evade.
He met it head-on.
The impact rattled through his frame, but something deep inside him stirred — a familiar burn, like embers catching flame. His breathing deepened, slower, more deliberate. The white fur across his chest began to glow — faint at first, then pulsing brighter, crimson light bleeding through skin and fur in rhythmic beats.
The secondary heart had awakened.
The Deathclaw sensed the change, but too late. The Wolf Lord's next exhale hit the monster's face like opening a forge door — a blast of heat so fierce it shimmered the air between them. Mid-summer or not, his breath steamed like a beast born in winter.
He moved differently now. The tired, staggered dodges were gone. Every step was sharp, every lunge decisive. Muscles swelled under fur as the secondary heart pumped molten oxygen through his body, feeding a power designed for siege-kill operations.
The Deathclaw swiped — the Wolf Lord caught the talon mid-swing, twisting it just enough to throw the predator off balance. His jaws locked onto the Deathclaw's bicep, teeth searing as they sank deeper.
The Deathclaw howled and slammed him into the ground again and again, but the Wolf Lord refused to let go. Steam hissed from his nostrils with every breath, rising in swirling plumes even as his teeth tore through the scaled hide.
Then he released — only to drop low and rake his claws across the Deathclaw's legs, severing tendons. The predator stumbled, one knee buckling.
The Wolf Lord was on it instantly, hammering into its flank, driving it toward the ridge wall with unrelenting force. His growl had changed — deeper, rougher, vibrating with the mechanical hum of something not entirely animal.
The Deathclaw lashed out in desperation, tail smashing across his ribs. The Wolf Lord staggered, crimson light in his chest flickering — but then surging brighter, almost incandescent, his breath now rolling out in waves of visible heat that warped the air.
He charged again, hitting the Deathclaw square in the chest and slamming it back into the stone. The impact cracked the wall, dust cascading around them.
They locked eyes — one pair gold, the other burning with primal fury.
And then, as if answering the Wolf Lord's unspoken challenge, the Deathclaw roared.
The sound was answered instantly, not with an animal's call, but with the bellow of a war-beast forged by cruel hands — a sound that carried more than hunger or territory.
It carried purpose.
The Deathclaw's roar broke against the night air like a storm against stone — but the Wolf Lord didn't flinch. The glow in his chest burned brighter, each pulse driving molten heat into every muscle and tendon.
The Deathclaw lunged, talons wide. The Wolf Lord slipped inside the strike, his teeth finding the unarmored throat beneath the monster's jawline. He clamped down hard, metal-laced fangs piercing deep. Hot blood flooded his mouth.
The Deathclaw bellowed and tried to tear free — but the Wolf Lord's grip was a vice, his engineered jaw pressure unrelenting. The secondary heart kept pumping, each beat fueling his legs to drive forward, forcing the predator back step by step.
The Deathclaw's claws raked his side, shredding fur and opening deep wounds — but he didn't let go.
He couldn't.
With a final surge, the Wolf Lord twisted, dragging the Deathclaw off balance and slamming it onto its side. The impact shook the ground. He tore his jaws free only to clamp them down again — higher this time, on the skull itself. His teeth punched through bone, sinking until the grinding resistance gave way.
The Deathclaw spasmed once. Twice. Then went still.
Silence fell over the ruined dueling ground.
The Wolf Lord stood over the carcass, sides heaving, chest-light dimming with each heavy breath. The glow finally faded, and his exhales softened, the molten heat dissipating into the warm night air. His body shrank back into its natural lines, the war-engine tension easing from his frame.
Only then did the other scent return.
He froze, nostrils flaring.
It was faint now — days old, nearly buried under the stink of battle and Deathclaw blood. But it was there. The scent. The one that had awoken something he thought was long gone.
His scent.
The man who had once given him a name.
The Wolf Lord lowered his head to the ground, sniffing until the trail sharpened in his mind. He turned southeast, toward the shadowed hills. Toward where the wind carried that faint, precious tether.
Without another glance at the fallen predator, he started moving — silent, sure, relentless.
Somewhere ahead, that scent would grow stronger.
And when he found its source… he didn't yet know if he would arrive as the weapon they had made.
Or as the dog who had loved.
...….
The dueling ground lay in ruin. The Deathclaw's carcass bled into the scorched stone, steam curling off its cooling hide. Dust swirled in the summer wind.
Then—without sound or warning—figures shimmered into view.
Seven of them, wrapped in the hard angles and matte black plating of Enclave stealth armor, their visors faintly aglow with readouts only they could see. They moved like shadows given purpose, spreading into a wide arc around the battleground.
At the center, their leader—armor trimmed in dark crimson—knelt beside the Deathclaw's head, gloved fingers tracing the bite pattern in the skull.
"Confirmation," he said, his voice filtered through the suit's comms. "Cerberus Prototype has deviated from projected path. He's moving southeast—toward the ruins of Wichita… and the capital of the local tribal coalition."
A faint crackle answered him—secure line, deep from the chain of command.
"Track and observe," the voice said. Cold. Measured. "The Prototype's deviation is… unexpected. He was built for conquest, not wandering. This is the most powerful unit we ever engineered—vastly beyond the capability of our mass-produced Cerberus hounds. And yet, he remains uncontrollable. Anything you can learn about his behavioral change will be… valuable."
The leader straightened, visor reflecting the pale light of the ridge. "Understood."
"If we can isolate the cause," the voice continued, "we can apply it to the next generation. More powerful… while still maintaining control. A true war-beast, guided from birth."
The leader glanced toward the southeast—where the Wolf Lord had gone, invisible to them now but not forgotten.
The voice on the line finished, deliberate and certain: "America will rise again."
The leader's head tilted slightly, the faintest suggestion of a smile beneath his visor.
"And be guided by the Enclave's hands," he said.
One by one, the armored figures shimmered out of sight, until only the wind remained to stir the dust over the bloodstained dueling ground.