The first rumor reached the outer provinces before the smoke had settled.
They whispered it in broken cities and half-burned taverns, among refugees huddled around dying fires and soldiers who no longer believed their commanders.
The Wolf hesitated.
The Wolf protected.
The Wolf turned.
Most dismissed it as grief-born fantasy—stories desperate people told themselves so they could sleep through the night. Monsters did not change. Weapons did not remember mercy.
But rumors had a way of growing teeth.
Zikura woke to iron and thunder.
The Citadel of Blackreach shook violently, deep tremors rolling through its foundations like the breathing of a wounded beast. Dust drifted from the ceiling of his chamber as distant roars echoed through the halls—not physical roars, but waves of magic crashing outward.
Maelkor was furious.
Zikura lay on a raised stone slab, restrained by runes that crawled like living things across the walls and floor. The collar at his neck was cracked now, a thin fracture glowing faintly with unstable energy. It throbbed painfully, no longer perfectly synchronized with his heartbeat.
That terrified them.
He smiled faintly despite the pain.
"So," he murmured to the empty room, "you felt it."
The doors slammed open.
Two Wardens strode in—taller than ordinary Enforcers, clad in bone-white armor etched with sigils of obedience. Their eyes glowed an unnatural blue, pupils swallowed by magic.
Behind them came Maelkor.
This time, he was fully present.
The air bent around him, shadows clinging to his form like living smoke. His crimson cloak drifted without wind, and his eyes burned—not red, but starless black.
"You broke protocol," Maelkor said softly.
Zikura pushed himself upright, chains clanking. "You broke me first."
The Wardens moved instantly.
Pain tore through him as suppressive magic slammed down, forcing him to his knees. Zikura snarled, muscles shaking as he resisted—not fully, not yet. He was learning restraint. Learning timing.
Maelkor stepped closer, studying the crack in the collar with naked interest.
"Do you know," Maelkor said calmly, "how many kingdoms fell because you obeyed me?"
Zikura lifted his head slowly. "Do you know how many still stand because I didn't?"
For the first time, Maelkor's composure fractured.
The shadows around him writhed violently, reacting to his anger. "You are nothing without my control."
Zikura's golden eyes met his. "Then why are you afraid?"
Silence.
Heavy. Dangerous.
Maelkor straightened. "You mistake anger for fear."
"No," Zikura said hoarsely. "I recognize it. I lived inside it."
Maelkor raised a hand.
The punishment was immediate and brutal.
Dark magic poured into Zikura's mind, forcing memories to the surface—cities burning, screams, blood on his claws. The wolf inside him howled in pain, thrashing against the chains of magic.
But something was different.
The memories no longer broke him.
They fueled him.
Zikura roared, his voice echoing through the citadel, ancient and defiant. The Howlbind flared beneath his armor, blue light bursting through the seams like dawn cracking night.
The chains snapped.
Not all.
Enough.
The shockwave knocked the Wardens back, slamming them into the walls. Maelkor staggered one step—just one—but it was enough.
Zikura felt it.
The shift.
"You cannot cage what remembers itself," Zikura growled.
Maelkor's eyes narrowed. "Then I will unmake you."
He vanished in a storm of shadow.
Alarms screamed.
The citadel descended into chaos.
Zikura moved fast, instincts sharpened beyond anything he had known before. He did not rampage. He did not destroy blindly.
He chose.
He knocked guards aside rather than killing them. He shattered runic doors and sealed corridors behind him, slowing pursuit. The wolf guided his steps, not with rage, but with purpose.
He smelled Kaelen before he saw him.
"You're alive," Kaelen said breathlessly, blood streaking his brow.
"For now," Zikura replied. "You need to leave."
Kaelen shook his head. "So do you. Maelkor is mobilizing the Void Choir."
Zikura stiffened. "That's impossible."
"They were sealed for a reason," Kaelen said grimly. "And he's breaking the seals."
That was worse than death.
The Void Choir were not soldiers. They were erased beings—souls hollowed out and bound to Maelkor's will. If unleashed, entire regions would vanish.
Zikura clenched his fists. "Then I won't run."
Kaelen stared at him. "You can't fight him alone."
"I don't plan to," Zikura said quietly.
They escaped Blackreach through forgotten tunnels beneath the citadel—paths carved long before Maelkor's reign, when the fortress had been something else entirely. Zikura felt the land change as they fled, the corruption thinning, the air growing cleaner with every mile.
By dawn, they reached the Redfall Pass.
And found it waiting.
An army.
Not Maelkor's.
People.
Refugees. Fighters. Mages bearing old symbols. Wolves—real ones—stood at the edges of the crowd, watching Zikura with unblinking eyes.
At their center stood a woman with silver markings across her face.
The resistance leader from Eirwyn Crossing.
She stepped forward slowly. "The rumors were true."
Zikura stopped, heart pounding.
"You didn't destroy us," she continued. "You stood between us and him."
He swallowed. "I don't deserve trust."
"No," she agreed. "But you've earned a chance."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Wolf of Mercy."
"Cursed Guardian."
"The Broken Fang."
Zikura winced at the names.
The woman extended her hand. "I am Sereth Vale. And people are already risking their lives because of you."
Zikura stared at her hand for a long moment—then took it.
"I won't promise victory," he said. "Only resistance."
Sereth smiled faintly. "That's how rebellions begin."
That night, as fires burned low and plans were whispered, Zikura stood alone at the edge of the camp.
The moon rose full and bright.
He tilted his head back and howled.
Not in pain.
Not in rage.
But in declaration.
Across valleys and forests, wolves answered—one by one, then many. The sound carried far, riding the wind into villages, ruins, and battlefields.
And everywhere it reached, people whispered the same thing:
"The Wolf has chosen."
Far away, in the deepest chamber of the citadel, Maelkor listened.
And for the first time in centuries—
He prepared for war.