The first thing Zikura felt was heat.
Not the clean, living warmth of a hearth fire or a sunrise over the hills—but the choking, suffocating heat of something that had already burned and refused to die.
Ash drifted through the air like falling snow, settling on his fur, clinging to his lashes, coating the ground in soft gray silence. Every step he took sank slightly, as though the land itself was tired of holding its own weight.
He stood at the edge of what had once been Kethryl.
A city of spires and music. A place where bells used to ring at dawn and children chased illusion-sparks through the streets. Zikura remembered it—not because he had been here before, but because the memories had been given to him during the war briefings. Stolen visions forced into his mind by the villains who now called themselves his masters.
Burn it, they had commanded.
Leave nothing standing.
And he had obeyed.
Now only the skeleton remained.
Blackened towers leaned at broken angles, their stones split open like old wounds. The streets were rivers of ash and glass, once cobblestone, now fused by dragonfire and magic storms he himself had unleashed.
Zikura's claws curled slowly into the ground.
Something twisted in his chest.
Not pain—not yet—but a pressure, deep and unfamiliar, like a memory knocking from the inside of a locked door.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, the world flickered.
He saw hands—human hands—pulling a frightened child behind a wall of light. Heard a voice cry his name, not in fear, but in relief.
Zikura! You came!
His breath hitched.
"No," he growled, voice low and rough, vibrating through his throat. "That's not real."
The voice of the villain's enchantment responded instantly, smooth and cold inside his mind.
Sentiment is weakness. You were created for obedience.
Zikura opened his eyes again.
The vision shattered.
He forced himself forward.
The Citadel of Embers still stood at the city's heart—half melted, half defiant. Its walls glowed faintly red, magic still smoldering within the stone. That was where the last resistance had gathered. That was where he had finished them.
As Zikura approached, his shadow stretched long and monstrous across the ash. His armor—dark steel etched with runes of domination—reflected the dying light. Every rune pulsed faintly, bound to his blood, feeding on his will.
Inside the citadel, the air was heavier.
The silence was wrong.
Not the peaceful silence of an ending—but the tense stillness of something unfinished.
Zikura stopped.
His ears twitched.
A sound.
Soft. Uneven.
Breathing.
His claws flexed instinctively as he followed the sound down a collapsed corridor, stepping over shattered columns and charred banners. The smell of burned magic was strongest here, mixed with something else.
Life.
He rounded the corner and froze.
A girl knelt behind a fallen slab of stone, her back pressed tight against it, hands glowing faintly blue as she struggled to hold a shielding spell together. She couldn't have been more than sixteen. Her hair was tangled with ash, her clothes torn and burned.
Her eyes widened when she saw him.
The spell flickered.
"P-please," she whispered, voice breaking. "I don't have anything left."
Zikura stared at her.
Orders rose immediately, sharp and absolute.
Eliminate survivors.
His hand lifted.
Magic gathered.
But something resisted.
The girl's magic—weak but stubborn—brushed against his senses. It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't attacking him.
It was protecting.
His arm trembled.
"Stop," the voice in his head snapped. Finish it.
But another voice—faint, buried—pushed back.
You used to protect too.
Zikura growled, clutching his head as pain flared behind his eyes. The runes on his armor burned brighter, tightening like chains around his ribs.
The girl flinched. "I know who you are," she whispered. "The Wolf of Ruin."
The name struck him harder than any blade.
"I heard stories," she continued shakily. "About a wolf warrior who saved villages. Who stood between monsters and the helpless."
His magic faltered.
"That was a lie," he said harshly, though his voice cracked. "I destroy."
She shook her head, tears streaking lines through the ash on her cheeks. "No. They made you destroy."
The runes flared violently.
Zikura roared—a sound of fury and agony—and slammed his claw into the stone wall beside him. The impact shattered it completely, debris raining down.
"Run," he snarled without looking at her.
The girl froze. "What?"
"Run!" he barked again, voice thunderous. "Before I change my mind."
The shielding spell collapsed.
For a heartbeat, she hesitated—then she ran, scrambling through the rubble, disappearing into the broken streets.
Zikura sank to one knee.
The pain inside him was unbearable now, like something ripping at the seams of his soul.
You disobeyed, the villain's voice hissed, no longer calm. You will be corrected.
Dark magic surged through his veins, forcing his body upright against his will. His vision blurred red as the enchantment tightened, memories flickering violently—his village, his mother's smile, the oath he once swore under moonlight.
I will protect.
"No," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I will not forget."
The correction spell slammed down.
Zikura screamed.
When he woke, he was chained.
Cold iron bands wrapped around his wrists, ankles, and neck, etched with suppression sigils that bit into his skin. He lay on a black stone floor, magic barely a whisper within him.
Torches flickered along the walls of the Obsidian Sanctum.
Footsteps approached.
"You are becoming inefficient," said a familiar voice.
Zikura lifted his head slowly.
The villain—cloaked in crimson and shadow—stood before him, eyes glowing with cruel intelligence.
"Mercy," the villain continued, circling him, "is a disease. One I thought we burned out of you."
Zikura met his gaze, breathing hard. "You didn't."
The villain smiled. "We will."
A hand lifted.
Darkness poured into Zikura like liquid night, dragging him under once more.
But this time—
Something stayed awake.
A spark.
Small, wounded, but alive.
And it remembered the girl who ran.