The dream returned the way it always did—without mercy.
Zikura stood in the middle of a burning village, ash drifting down like black snow. The air reeked of iron and smoke, and beneath it all was the sharp, unmistakable scent of fear. His feet were bare, planted in mud soaked dark with blood that was not his. Around him lay broken doors, shattered charms, and bodies twisted in ways no living thing should ever rest.
They were not strangers.
He knew them.
A woman lay near the well, her arm stretched toward him as though she had died reaching for his help. A boy—no older than seven—was crumpled beside a fallen cart, his eyes wide open, frozen in terror. The markings on their clothes were familiar, stitched in patterns Zikura himself had once helped carve into the village banners.
"Why didn't you save us?" the woman whispered.
Zikura tried to speak, but his throat burned. His chest felt too tight, as though iron bands had wrapped themselves around his ribs.
"I tried," he wanted to say.
But the words never came.
Instead, the ground trembled. The sky split open with a roar, and a massive shadow rose behind him—taller than any beast, broader than any man. When he turned, he saw himself.
Not as he was now, but as the weapon they had forged.
Eyes glowing crimson. Fur matted with blood. Runes carved deep into flesh, pulsing with dark magic. The Wolf Warrior lifted one clawed hand and pointed directly at him.
"You chose this," the other Zikura growled.
"No," Zikura whispered. "I was taken."
The shadow smiled—a cruel, knowing thing.
"And yet," it said, "you still kill."
Zikura woke with a violent gasp.
His body jerked upright, claws scraping against stone as he sucked in air like a drowning man pulled too late from the river. Sweat drenched his skin, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might tear free of his chest.
The chamber was dark, lit only by faint blue sigils etched into the walls. They pulsed gently, responding to his awakening, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was.
Then the weight returned.
The collar around his neck—cold, heavy, humming with magic—anchored him back to reality.
He was not in a village.
He was in Blackreach Citadel.
Zikura leaned forward, resting his forehead against his knees, forcing himself to breathe slowly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way Elder Ruvan had once taught him, back when calming the beast within had been a skill learned for protection, not control.
Remember who you are, Ruvan's voice echoed faintly in his mind.
Zikura clenched his fists.
That was the problem.
He remembered too much.
A sharp clang echoed through the corridor outside his cell, followed by the scrape of boots against stone. Zikura stiffened instantly, senses sharpening despite his exhaustion. He could smell them before he saw them—steel, sweat, and the faint, sour tang of fear poorly hidden beneath authority.
The cell door slid open with a groan.
Commander Veyr stepped inside.
He was tall and lean, his dark armor etched with the sigil of the Dominion—an eye pierced by a blade. His expression was calm, almost bored, as though he were inspecting a tool rather than addressing a living being.
"Awake already?" Veyr said. "Good. That saves time."
Zikura did not respond.
Veyr gestured, and two enforcers stepped in behind him, gripping long chains carved with suppressive runes. The magic in the room shifted, pressing down on Zikura's senses like a heavy fog.
"There's another city," Veyr continued casually. "South of the Ashen Plains. Minor defenses. Weak leadership. Perfect for tonight."
Zikura's jaw tightened.
"How many?" he asked quietly.
Veyr arched an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
A smile touched Veyr's lips, thin and cruel. "Still pretending you care?"
Zikura lifted his gaze slowly, golden eyes burning in the dim light. "I've never stopped."
For a brief moment, something flickered across Veyr's face—annoyance, perhaps. Then it vanished.
"You'll do your job," he said. "Or we'll remind you why you obey."
The collar pulsed, sending a sharp jolt of pain through Zikura's spine. He gritted his teeth but refused to cry out.
"Prepare him," Veyr ordered.
The enforcers moved quickly, snapping the chains onto Zikura's wrists. As the runes activated, his magic recoiled violently, like a caged animal slamming itself against iron bars.
As they dragged him from the cell, Zikura caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished obsidian wall.
The beast stared back.
And somewhere deep inside, something old and fragile cracked just a little more.
The city of Larethyn lay beneath a crescent moon, its white stone towers glowing softly under starlight. It was beautiful in a quiet, unassuming way—too beautiful to be destroyed.
Zikura stood atop a nearby cliff, wind tugging at his cloak, the smell of the city drifting up to him. Bread baking. Wood smoke. Clean water. Life.
It reminded him of home.
The Dominion soldiers waited behind him, torches unlit, weapons ready. Veyr's voice echoed in his mind through the collar.
Begin.
Zikura closed his eyes.
For a heartbeat, he imagined walking away. Letting the magic inside him explode outward, shattering the collar, tearing the cliff apart. He imagined running until the chains broke, until the world blurred and he was nothing but fur and wind and freedom.
But then he remembered the cells beneath Blackreach.
The screams.
The way they punished entire villages when he resisted.
Slowly, painfully, Zikura raised his hands.
Magic surged through him—wild, ancient, wolf-born. The ground beneath his feet cracked as shadows gathered, coiling around his form. His body shifted, bones stretching, muscles expanding as fur rippled across his skin.
The Wolf Warrior emerged.
When his eyes opened again, they glowed red.
He leapt.
The first wall fell with a thunderous crash. Guards shouted. Bells rang. Chaos erupted like a wound torn open.
Zikura moved through the city like a living storm. He shattered gates, crushed towers, and howled—a sound so full of pain it split the night itself. Every strike was precise, controlled, devastating.
And yet—
He spared those who ran.
When a mother shielded her child, he turned away.
When a young soldier dropped his weapon, trembling, Zikura knocked him aside instead of tearing him apart.
The Dominion noticed.
"Finish it," Veyr hissed through the collar. "Burn the heart of the city."
Zikura stood before the central spire—the place where the city's elders gathered. He could feel them inside. Dozens of lives. Innocent. Afraid.
His claws trembled.
"No," he whispered.
Pain exploded through him, stronger than ever before. He dropped to one knee, snarling as the collar flared, forcing his muscles to obey.
He raised his hand—
And stopped.
Something warm touched his leg.
Zikura looked down.
A child stood there, no more than five years old, clutching a wooden wolf carved crudely but lovingly. The boy's face was streaked with tears, but his eyes were wide with awe rather than fear.
"Are you… a guardian?" the child asked softly.
The world seemed to freeze.
Guardian.
The word struck him like a blade to the heart.
Memories flooded back—standing atop village walls, fending off raiders. Children cheering when he returned. Elders bowing their heads in gratitude.
You protect. You do not destroy.
Zikura roared—not in rage, but in anguish.
With a violent surge of will, he slammed his clawed hand into the ground—not toward the spire, but away from it. Magic erupted outward, creating a massive barrier of stone and shadow between the Dominion forces and the city's heart.
The collar screamed.
Zikura screamed louder.
He grabbed the child gently and set him behind the barrier. "Run," he said, his voice rough but unmistakably kind. "Hide."
The boy nodded and fled.
Zikura turned back toward the approaching soldiers, blood and fire reflecting in his eyes.
For the first time since his capture, he smiled.
If they wanted a monster—
They would have to face a wolf who remembered why he was born.