Tartarus sat on the wind like something grown old before its time, a black crown on the earth, hollows where light once lived. The Great Halls stood in the moon's thin glare; the roof breathed cold into the long room, and the iron throne hummed with a low, uncaring hunger.
Draven rested there, half-slumped — a king made of shadow and bone. Torches guttered in the draught, their flames threw short, nervous tongues across the banners. The moonlight, pale and hard, seemed to take even that small warmth.
His mind did not match the citadel. It was elsewhere—a meadow full of impossible light, a pale woman beneath an old oak, silk like water and hair silver as a dawn that never fell. Her name he dared not speak. He kept it like a wound. Her flesh, the way her robe barely covered the alluring warm body — for a moment his cold halls warmed with the memory, and the stone room felt like a field.
Then the doors fell open like the mouth of the world. Heavy footsteps shook the floors—an earthquake on the marble—and the lords of the beasts poured through.
Gorath Maulbane came first, huge in fur and iron. In his right hand he carried something obscene and wet: the severed head of his son. It hit the floor before the throne with a wet thud and rolled a dark arc. Iron stung the air.
"O great one," he bellowed, voice like a falling rock, "to whom shall my name go when my time is done?"
His hands were stained, bracelets of bone rattled. Grief and rage braided in him and showed plain as hunger.
The other lords took their places. Skarn Viletooth, small and slippery, his rings clinking with every breath.
Rhaegor Strypesoul, tall, striped, deadly. Kael'Ryn the Golden, mane bright with pride. They gathered like a storm, eyes bright and lit with demand.
Draven looked at them, at the head, at the blood poured like an offering. He breathed out, a long wind through a ruined keep. He had built this rule, bent these beasts under one law, but rule had a cost. He had not wanted this night. He had wanted the pale solace of that stolen memory. Kings, however, must answer their lords.
"This is an insult," Gorath said, voice ragged with grief. "The humans grow bold. This 'Beast Slayer' strikes our borders, burns our young—now my heir lies decapitated at your hall. O great one—do we wait while our blood waters the earth?"
Rhaegor's claws tightened on his haft. "We must scour them. March east, burn their enclaves, raze their temples. Let the ash fall and their names be gone."
Kael'Ryn's voice cut like a blade. "Strike now with unified force. Crush the ember of their rebellion before it becomes a fire. We are many; we are strong."
Skarn spat. The wet sound hit the stone. "Enough words. We want blood. We want the bones of that child at our feet. Their thousands for our one"
Gorath, banged his fist on his knee. "Tartarus owes you vengeance. Name the field. We ride at dawn."
A low, ugly cheer rose. Yet beneath that noise was a quieter sound—wings beating in a chest, the whisper that the chain holding these beasts together might fray. Draven felt it. He had made them fear his name but now some wanted a quicker victory than patience would give.
He let them vent. Let the smoke of their anger pass. A king holds a torrent until reason can dam it. His voice, when it came, was low and the sound of iron in wind.
"You stand with fire in your mouths and ask me to throw that fire across the world on your say-so," he said. "I do not deny your pain. I see your loss. But our law is order. We strike when I command."
Gorath's fists closed. "Cowardice!" he shouted. "You cower in your towers and speak of law while our sons lie in open graves."
Draven's face stayed still. "I do not cower," he said. "I feel what you feel. But a king is not a butcher. If you demand vengeance, you will have it in measure—not in wild blood."
"Measure!" Skarn hissed, venom in the word. "Measure is for those who pretend the old gods judge us. We have honor—"
"Honor?" Draven cut him, eyes narrowing. He shifted in his seat, heavier in the throne. For a breath the air tasted of iron. "Who speaks of honor when your forges make chains and your hands are bloody from pillage? You speak as if slaughter were a jewel to be polished."
Skarn leaned forward on his axe, eyes hard. "We are beasts, Great One. We feed when we must. This Beast Slayer leads men and elves together. He will give them hope. Hope breeds defiance. Defiance must be crushed."
Draven's breath lengthened. Around his mouth something moved, his skin drew tight, the nose sharpened, the ears shifted as if some deeper shape tried to press out. A hunger edged his voice—no longer wholly human. The torches seemed to stutter, as if even flame feared that change.
Skarn, stung and angry and raw, pushed on. "You are old, Draven. You sit on a throne of shadow and speak of law. The net tightens. You hesitate. Has the moon taken your bite?"
For a single sharp instant the king's face unmade itself. His eyes flared molten red. Teeth lengthened into fangs that flashed in torchlight. His ears twitched, the wolf's mark printed on flesh—not a full change, but the beast's shape unmistakable. From his chest came a low sound, not speech but promise—the sound of a hunt waking.
Silence snapped like a blade. The lords froze mid-gesture; the air thickened and drew back.
Skarn went white as if color left his face. Rhaegor shifted away as if something unholy stood among them. Even Gorath's thunder cooled, his shout died in his throat.
Draven did not stand. He let the wolf ebb back, a demonstration of full control. When he spoke again, his voice held the cold of the wild.
"You would question my hand? You would test my calm? You would send your young to slaughter without my sanction?" He smiled, it was not warm.
"Hear me—no lord leaves this hall to soak the earth with blood without my command. Any who break that law will find themselves not above men but beneath them. I will burn your holdings. I will scald your names from the runes. I will unmake you where you stand."
The words landed like iron bolts. No one moved. Skarn's bravado broke; it was a brittle thing splintered in a king's presence.
"We retreat now," Draven said, voice colder than winter wind. "We will strike when I say so" And then he rose. His black robe was opened at the chest, and a large scar was visible.
"Remember—I am the wolf fate made king. I am the law of night and hunger. Cross me, and this kingdom you love will be cinder."
The lords bowed—some with rage still bright in their eyes, some with fear—and left. Their steps rolled into the corridors like distant thunder. They carried their grievances like knives. In their chests burned a bitter seed: Draven's hand had wavered. That thought would not die easy.
***
The lords went their ways when they left the King's presence.
Gorath Maulbane trudged through the slums of Tartarus, where taverns throbbed with laughter and drunken song — laughter from the King's kind, those who feasted while their lands bled. The noise grated against his bones. It was a wound reopened, and rage began to coil in his chest like a living thing.
He spat on the dirt, the sound sharp as a curse.
The smell of ale and sweat filled the air. The ogre chieftain's heavy steps echoed through the crooked street until he reached the edge of the settlement, where his cart waited — a hulking troll, chained and obedient, pulling the weight of his armor and war spoils. Gorath climbed up onto the plank, his breath a low growl as his thoughts festered.
But then — a flicker.
A whisper of motion.
Something stirred in the shadows.
Someone was following him.
He stilled, the troll groaning beneath his weight. His hand went to his axe — the same that had split skulls like ripe fruit — and his voice rolled through the still night, shaking with wrath.
"Step out from the shadows."
He didn't turn. He didn't need to. His nose caught it first — the sharp, bitter scent of man. Human.
The realization made him snarl, low and dangerous.
He turned at last, his gaze blazing.
There, standing in the dim spill of torchlight, was a figure cloaked in dark robes — a mage. And not just any fool dabbling in tricks; this one carried power. Gorath swung without thought, his axe screaming through the air — only to clash against a shimmering barrier of dragon scales, each one gleaming with runes that pulsed faintly violet.
The sight of it — that spell, that impossible shield — sent a shiver through even the ogre's massive frame.
"I come as a friend, O Great Mountain That Devoured." The mage's voice was smooth, almost melodic, though his face remained hidden beneath the hood. He bowed, low, respectful.
"Vermin," Gorath spat, his tusks gleaming wet in the torchlight. "I am no friend to your kind."
"Perhaps," the mage said softly, "but perhaps the message I carry grants me the right to speak."
Gorath grunted, turned his back, and trudged forward, uninterested. But the mage's next words froze him where he stood.
"We have found who the Beast Slayer is… and where their enclave lies hidden."
Silence hung heavy between them.
Gorath turned slowly, eyes narrowing to slits. His interest, long buried under fury and grief, flickered to life.
"And why," he growled, "should I believe a frail-boned liar of a man?"
The mage chuckled, low and eerie. Then, with a deliberate motion, he drew back his hood.
His face was pale as death, his eyes burning with violet fire. Shadows coiled and breathed from his skin — a living darkness that hissed and shifted like smoke.
"I am no longer human," he said. "I serve a master far greater than this world can fathom."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then slowly, Gorath's grimace stretched into a grin — wide, jagged, and cruel. A single tusk jutted upward as he laughed, deep and heavy, like thunder rolling in the mountains.
The mage did not flinch.
And as the night aged, something older than either of them stirred.
Darkness awoke — patient, ravenous, and ready to devour all.