Before he could do anything, the sword descended.
Time seemed to fracture. The blade gleamed in the torchlight, catching the fire as if it carried the sun itself. The air split with a hiss, a sound sharp enough to silence the crowd.
Her eyes widened — not in fear, but in a quiet acceptance. The steel met flesh, sliding through with a sickening finality. A gasp escaped her lips, fragile and broken, echoing louder than the drums had ever beaten.
The altar shook beneath her weight as blood bloomed across her gown, crimson spreading like a flower opening in the dark. The crowd inhaled as one, a thousand breaths caught in horror. Even the priests faltered, their chants strangled in their throats.
Her body trembled, yet she turned her gaze toward him. Through the haze of pain, her lips parted, and with her last breath she whispered:
"Destiny… it was always meant to be."
Her voice was faint, but it carried like thunder in his chest. Her eyes lingered on him, soft and sorrowful, before the light within them faded.
The drums fell silent. The gods had taken their sacrifice. And in that silence, Mandle's world shattered.
And then… something raged.
The priests faltered in their chants, their voices breaking as a sudden surge of power rippled through the crowd. The air thickened, heavy with shadows that hissed like serpents. One priest pointed, his hand trembling.
"There! In the crowd!"
Gasps spread like wildfire. For generations, the ancestors had spoken of a savior born of only the light — a radiant boy who would rise at the altar, a child of divine beauty who would lead them into salvation. The people had waited, the priests had prepared, the king had demanded obedience for this very moment.
But what they saw now was not the boy of light.
A hooded figure stood among them, surging with a terrible energy. Black flames twisted from beneath the hood, shadows writhing like serpents. The crowd recoiled, shifting back in terror, pressing away until a circle of emptiness formed.
And then even the king — the man whose gaze had always been cold, unyielding, carved from stone — faltered. His face grew pale, drained of its iron mask. Fear, raw and unhidden, spread across his features, a fear he had never shown before. He stumbled backward, falling onto the stone, scrambling like a child. With trembling hands he reached out, clutching at the robes of the priests, trying to hide behind them as if their bodies could shield him.
In the center of that void, Mandle stood alone. His body trembled, but his laughter spilled out — sharp, cruel, echoing beneath the hood. It was the laughter of a freak, a sound that silenced the priests and froze the king where he cowered.
Yet beneath that laughter, his mind was breaking. Why did he feel this way? Why did his chest ache with longing for a girl he had only just met? Why did her final words burn deeper than any wound, as if they had been meant for him alone?
He had known her for mere days, yet her absence hollowed him, her death carved into him like a blade. The shadows surged because of his rage, but the emptiness inside him was born of something far more dangerous — desire, grief, and a love he could not understand.
Far beyond the city walls, deep in the forest, the earth trembled. The monstrous wolf — the beast of legend, huge and terrible — stirred from its slumber. Its eyes snapped open, glowing with hunger, but then it froze. The surge of power that rippled from the city reached it like a command.
The beast lowered its head, its massive body trembling. Its fangs bared not in defiance but in submission. For the first time in its existence, the wolf felt fear — not of the gods, not of men, but of the hooded boy whose laughter echoed across the land.
It knew him. It feared him. And in that fear, it bowed like a servant before its master.