—Year 397 before the Ascension of the Celestial Monarch—
From the Great Beggar Princeps, Nogai Moskú. To the Great Pilgrim, Tordespa Portugal. Date: 05-07 of the 41st year of His Majesty Ligaure's reign.
—MISSION DISPATCH— —APPROVED— —ABSOLUTE PRIORITY—
Dear Portugal, I hope you enjoy the glory of working under the direct orders of the Hegemony. May the gods guide your steps in the mission I shall entrust to you.
The Hegemony's movements in [REDACTED] have caused a hasty distribution of the [REDACTED]. For now, the [REDACTED] has not moved, but concern from [REDACTED] has prompted the relocation of forces throughout the entire Hegemony in anticipation of a new [REDACTED].
Your mission will consist of tracking and reporting the movements of rebel forces on the continent.
But you will not be alone; you will have the absolute loyalty of [REDACTED], who, despite the rumors, is as loyal to the Hegemony as I am. For now, your movements will be secret, your powers within enemy territory are absolute, and your authority unlimited.
Any necessary casualties and the immediate purge of the [REDACTED] elements will be your responsibility. I will expect a monthly report via this same secret channel. To prevent any leaks, this message will be encrypted and subsequently destroyed, with no copies made.
May the honor of Lemuria and its heroes guide you.
—END OF MESSAGE—
…
Tolrik frowned, glaring furiously at Ulrika.
"What do you mean we won't do anything, sister?" Tolrik growled angrily, looking with an expression full of frustration not only at his sister, but also at Benia, who—to his surprise and disappointment—had said nothing, even though she looked just as furious and in disagreement as he was.
"It's not a matter you can get involved in, Tolrik. There is nothing you can do; there are far more important things at stake," Ulrika grunted in a stern tone, sighing solemnly.
"But..." he growled in annoyance.
A fourth person in the room let out a sigh that made the air freeze in the mouths of those present, leaving them instantly paralyzed.
"Master," the three said in unison, straightening up and bowing slightly at the presence of Ernzu, who had appeared in the room at some unknown moment.
They were currently in an old Warden base in the northern part of Ulheim, practically hundreds of kilometers away from the nearest Fey settlement.
"Why do you argue over matters you cannot handle yourselves?" their master grunted with a sigh, pointing to the subject of their discussion.
A few months ago, the trio had been sent on an important mission. That mission practically consisted of destroying the outposts of the Giant Clans, who had extended their settlements beyond the natural boundary that was the Frozen Mountain Range.
Currently, Tolrik was furious because Ulrika refused to completely expel and massacre the population that had settled along the border.
"Master, they are invaders. We have the right to eliminate them; if we let them stay, they will destroy everything we hold dear," he said in a harsh tone, trying to fight against his master's gaze, but failing. Averting his eyes, he felt Ulrika and Benia's eyes on him, making him feel perhaps even more miserable.
"That doesn't matter; it's not something you can do or decide for yourself. Furthermore, sending you on a mission of that kind would be senseless, a useless waste of your lives. For now, we have attacked military and logistical bases that are straying beyond the one-thousand-kilometer margin from the highest peak of the Frozen Mountain Range. It makes no sense to attack beyond that limit, since that place can be considered beyond the Hegemony's capacity to enter in any sense."
"Alright, Master," Tolrik grunted with a tired sigh.
"Besides, the Cyriliac Empire has been in chaos lately. Dark III is apparently expelling large numbers of Escalis from his lands; a great migration is not surprising. The Hegemony has already granted them refugee status, so overreacting as long as they don't do anything excessive is counterproductive," Ernzu said, concluding the matter in an attempt to pacify things. "Benia, Ulrika, stay. Tolrik, withdraw for now."
Those words drew an expression of horror on Tolrik's face as he looked at his master in desperation.
"Master, I..." He tried to justify himself, to say something to explain his incompetence in previous missions, but he couldn't; he wasn't qualified to be on the same level as Benia or his sister.
"It's not what you think," his master said with a warm sigh as she held his shoulder. "Ulrika and Benia are on an infiltration mission that you couldn't do. Besides..." she added with a smile, "I have recommended you to enter the service of an Ollam Brithen, so you can begin your training path to become a true Finn."
Tolrik's expression brightened considerably at those words. He tried to say something regarding his outburst, but was simply met with a congratulatory smile from Ernzu, while his sister gave him a proud smile and Benia smiled at him warmly.
"Well, go now. What I have to discuss with them is not something you can know about for now."
And this time he didn't feel offended or worried by those words; after all, his head was somewhere else at this point.
.....
Luck was something men lost, like a loan that grows emptier with every action. That was what Ducanor's adoptive mother used to tell him whenever he was lucky with something: that his luck was running out and not to trust it when something good happened, because he could lose it all to the interest.
If she was right, he had spent the luck of ten lifetimes.
"When will you let me go?" he asked for the umpteenth time.
He didn't remember how long he had been locked up, but it was quite a while. Though calling it a lockup was perhaps an exaggeration; he was confined to a room in some sort of cabin in the woods. They left him food and clothes, and did nothing to him other than prevent him from leaving.
And it wasn't like he had the intention to; after all, just looking at the existence guarding him gave him the chills.
"Master said that when she returns we will discuss your condition, but until then you will stay here," replied the black-haired, delicate-looking girl sitting behind the door in a weary tone.
They didn't watch him all the time; the three people in the residence took turns. From what he could hear, their names were Benia, Tolrik, and Ulrika. The one on guard right now was Benia.
"And when will she return?" he asked again. His badgering wasn't out of malice, but pure boredom.
He sincerely hoped all this would end. He didn't want to think; he didn't want to think about what he had experienced upon becoming a Blood Wolf, nor did he want to think about...
He unconsciously touched his glabella, feeling something hard and almost metallic on his forehead. When he woke up, he had discovered that abnormality quite cautiously. The woman the trio referred to as "Master" had told him that something had merged with him, but for now it didn't seem to be harmful or dangerous, though he would be under surveillance for being a former lycan.
"What happened to the rest of the lycans inside the cave? Did you kill them all?" he asked coldly that time.
The woman looked at him for a few moments; her gaze was illegible to Ducanor. He didn't know her full name, but he feared her; after all, she and just three other people had destroyed an entire lycan nest. If that wasn't monstrous, then he didn't know what was.
"Most pure lycans are dead, many by my disciples, and the rest died in the confusion."
Ducanor's expression filled with pain at that moment. The only warmth he had felt during those days had been from that white-furred female, and now, understanding that she was dead while he lived by the goodwill of her killers made him feel even worse.
But he couldn't blame them; after all, he probably would have done the same if it weren't for the curse.
"Shit," he grunted as the pain he had tried to ignore during these nights returned.
He had lost his right hand to the Demonic Tree. That in itself was bad, but the worst part was that he still felt as if his hand was there. And the pain of the cut, like an endless cycle, kept returning to him, waking him up during the nights and preventing him from sleeping.
"Are you okay?" Benia asked in a softer tone from the other side of the door. "If you want, I can change the bandage on your wound."
He thought about refusing out of pride, but gave in and, after an awkward silence, said yes.
Benia entered the room with an unfriendly expression, but still did her job well, starting by cleaning the wound and covering it with some unknown balms before bandaging it.
"I know this might be confusing, but you will probably be better off. At least better than before."
"Better than being a lycan?" Ducanor asked curiously.
"Yes, anything is better than being a theranthrope," she replied confidently.
"What is that?" he asked, dumbfounded.
Benia seemed to intend to leave, but ultimately stayed and began to explain what the lycans were. On the northern continent, there existed a race hidden among the surface dwellers: that was the Blood Race, cursed immortal existences that sought to spread their influence across the four continents.
"Theranthropes are a variant of this race; they use blood to curse their victims, turning them into the accursed, existences bound to the blood and enslaved to it. The method is through bloodline hybridization; for example, lycans are a corruption of the Lupercals with the bloodline of the Blood Race. But your nest wasn't just members of the Blood Race, it was also a tempest cult."
Suddenly Benia fell silent and, without letting Ducanor speak, said:
"Everything I just told you is taboo outside the high-ranking circles of the Hegemony. If you spread it, death will be the least of your worries."
And with those words she disappeared, leaving Ducanor with more questions than answers as she walked away into the distance.