Part 1: The Dreams of a Dead Man
The mud of the Copper Grove was not merely earth and water; it was a cold, suffocating paste that smelled of old pennies and coagulated time. It seeped into the joints of Alaric's armor, filling the spaces where warmth used to be, acting as a freezing cocoon for the man who was no longer a man. In the hollowed-out root of the weeping willow, Alaric's body lay still, a rusted, discarded husk. But behind the dark, sealed slit of his visor, his mind was frantic, clawing desperately at the edges of a reality that had already shattered.
To escape the cold, his mind fled backward. It retreated from the swamp and the blood, diving headfirst into the golden, sun-drenched lie of the past. In the realm of sleep, he was not the "Lap Dog." He was not a creature of blackened iron and necrotic flesh. He was simply Alaric, a boy who believed that the sun was a shield, that honor was a currency, and that the King was his brother.
In the dream, the sun was blinding.
He was twelve years old again, standing in the Royal Courtyard of the Gaan Palace. It was a sensory overload of wealth and peace—the smell of blooming honeysuckle, the sound of crystal-clear water trickling from marble fountains, and the sight of children who wore silk instead of wool.
Alaric stood apart from them, near the stables, wearing the rough-spun grey tunic of a charity ward. He was the son of a dead knight, taken in by the Crown not out of love, but out of a bureaucratic obligation to the war dead. He felt heavy, clumsy, and dirty in this place of light.
Across the courtyard, by the Koi pond, stood Prince Leonus. Even at twelve, Leonus was a creature of the sun. His hair was spun gold, his eyes a piercing sapphire blue that seemed to hold the sky. He was laughing, surrounded by the sons of Dukes and Earls—boys like Vane, who was already fat on indulgence and cruel in the eyes.
"Look at the stray," Vane sneered, pointing a riding crop at Alaric. "The gatekeeper said his father died in a ditch. Probably running away."
Alaric's hands balled into fists at his sides. "He died holding the Black Ford," Alaric said, his voice cracking with the indignity of puberty. "He saved the village."
"Saved the village," Vane mocked, looking to his sycophants for laughter. "He died for pig farmers. How noble. How... quaint."
Vane snatched a wooden toy soldier from the bench where Leonus was sitting. It was a beautifully carved piece, painted in the royal colors of white and gold.
"Hey," Leonus protested weakly. "That's mine."
"Relax, Highness," Vane grinned. "I'm testing the livestock."
Vane hurled the toy into the center of the Koi pond. The water was deep, green with algae, and notoriously cold. The toy bobbed, drifting toward the drain.
"Go get it, stray!" Vane barked at Alaric. "If you want to stay in the palace, you have to be useful. Fetch!"
Alaric looked at the toy. He looked at Vane's cruel, piggish face. And then he looked at Leonus.
The Prince looked small. Despite his silk and his title, he shrank away from Vane's aggression. He looked at Alaric with wide, fearful eyes, a silent plea for help. He was a boy who had everything but courage.
Alaric didn't hesitate. He walked into the pond. He didn't know how to swim properly, so he waded until the bottom dropped out, then thrashed through the slime and the cold water. The algae clung to his skin like wet webs. He grabbed the soldier, choking on a mouthful of pond water, and dog-paddled back to the edge.
He hauled himself out, dripping wet, shivering violently. He ruined the aesthetic of the perfect garden. He walked past Vane, ignoring the jeers, and knelt before Leonus. He held out the toy with two shaking hands.
"For... for you, Highness," Alaric chattered.
Leonus took the toy. He wiped the slime off on his velvet breeches. He looked at Alaric, and for the first time, Alaric saw it—the look that would define their lives. It was gratitude, yes, but it was mixed with a relief that someone else had done the dirty work.
"Thank you," Leonus whispered.
"Good dog," Vane laughed, patting Alaric hard on the wet head. "That's a good dog."
The dream shifted, dissolving and reforming years later.
They were young men now, nineteen and strong. The training yard was dust and sweat. Alaric held a practice sword, his muscles burning. Opposite him was Leonus, faster now, stronger, but still lacking the killer instinct.
They were sparring. Alaric saw the opening—Leonus dropped his guard every time he went for a high strike. Alaric could have disarmed him. He could have embarrassed him in front of the watching Generals.
But he didn't.
Alaric checked his swing. He stumbled, feigning a loss of balance.
Leonus capitalized, his wooden blade striking Alaric's ribs with a crack. Alaric went down in the dust.
"Yield!" Leonus shouted, flushed with victory, looking up at the Generals to ensure they saw.
"I yield," Alaric wheezed, clutching his bruised side.
Later, in the locker room, Leonus sat beside him. "You let me win," the Prince said quietly.
"A King must be seen to be strong," Alaric replied, unwrapping the tape from his hands. "If the army thinks you are weak, they will hesitate. If they think you are a warrior, they will follow you into hell."
Leonus gripped Alaric's shoulder. "You take the hits, Alaric. You always take the hits. Why?"
"Because I am the Shield," Alaric said simply. "And you are the Sword. A sword doesn't need to block. It only needs to strike."
"We are brothers," Leonus vowed, his eyes shining with tears. "Not by blood, but by iron. When I am King, you will be my right hand. We will fix this world, Alaric. We will make it so no one has to die in a ditch for pig farmers."
The dream swirled again, moving to the one memory that felt like holy ground.
The Royal Ball. The night the world changed color.
Alaric stood on the balcony, uncomfortable in his dress uniform, watching the nobles dance. He felt like a wolf in a room of peacocks.
Then, she appeared.
Elara. The Princess. The Flower of Gaan.
She wasn't looking at the dancers. She was looking at him. She walked over, her blue silk dress rustling like the sea. She didn't offer a polite curtsy. She leaned against the railing beside him, looking out at the moon.
"You look like you're calculating the structural integrity of the dance floor," she said, her voice a melody that cut through the noise of the orchestra.
"It's a soldier's habit, Highness," Alaric replied stiffly. "Assessing threats."
"And who is the threat here?" she asked, turning to face him. Her eyes were blue, like her brother's, but they lacked the fear. They held a fierce, quiet intelligence.
"Boredom," Alaric said.
She laughed. It was a genuine, unpracticed sound. "You're Alaric. The Iron Pillar. My brother talks about you. He says you're the only thing holding him together."
"I serve the Crown," Alaric recited.
"Stop it," she whispered, reaching out to touch his scarred hand resting on the railing. "Stop being a soldier for a minute. Be a man. My brother needs a pillar, yes. But pillars crack if they bear too much weight alone."
She looked into his eyes, and Alaric felt his defenses crumble. He felt seen, not as a tool, not as a dog, but as a person.
"I don't know how to be anything else," he admitted.
"Then I will teach you," Elara said. "I don't need a hero, Alaric. Heroes die young. I need a partner. I need someone who will stand in the mud with me and not complain about the cold."
The dream accelerated to the wedding. The Cathedral of Dawn. The smell of incense and white roses.
Elara walking down the aisle, radiant. The vows they spoke were not the standard texts of the Church. They were promises whispered in the dark.
"I, Alaric, take you, Elara. To be my soul and my shelter."
"I, Elara, take you, Alaric. To be my heart and my home."
As he placed the ring on her finger, he looked over her shoulder. He saw Leonus. The King was standing there, watching. He wasn't smiling. He looked fearful, his eyes darting to the High Pope in the front row. The Pope was watching Alaric with the cold calculation of a butcher measuring a calf.
In the dream, the joy of the wedding began to sour. The incense turned to the smell of sulfur. The white roses turned brown and withered in seconds.
Alaric tried to kiss his bride, but her lips were cold.
"Elara?" he whispered.
She looked at him. Her eyes were empty sockets. Her skin turned grey.
"You fetched the stick, Alaric," she said, but it was Leonus's voice coming from her mouth. "You fetched the stick, but you dropped the ball."
The Cathedral dissolved. The floor fell away.
Alaric was falling. He hit the mud of the Copper Grove.
He woke up.
The transition from the golden past to the grey, rotting present was a physical agony. He wasn't in the palace. He wasn't holding his wife. He was a monster in a hole, chained by magic to a Hag who ate sorrow.
He let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. The memory of the wedding was the sharpest blade in his arsenal. It reminded him of what he had. It reminded him of what was stolen.
He was the Dog. And the Master had to pay.
Part 2: The Geometry of Despair
The memory of the betrayal was a poison that Alaric drank willingly, savoring the burn because the pain was the only thing that felt real.
It had started three weeks ago. The Crisis.
The Kingdom of Gaan was a jewel, but it was a jewel set in a rotting crown. For three years, the crops had withered on the vine. The cattle had birthed stillborn calves with two heads. The rivers ran sluggish and brown, smelling of iron.
King Leonus had called the Council of Elders to the High Cathedral. He was desperate. The people were starving, and starving peasants eventually stopped fearing the Crown and started fearing hunger more.
Alaric stood behind the King's chair, his hand on the pommel of his broadsword, his eyes scanning the room. The Council was a collection of vultures in velvet. Hareth, the Treasurer, was eating grapes while discussing famine. The High Pope Benedictus sat like a spider in his crimson robes, watching the panic unfold with a bored detachment.
"We have no grain left," Leonus said, his voice tight with stress. "The silos in the North are empty. The trade routes to Dolbey are blocked by the winter storms. My people are eating bark, Benedictus. Bark!"
"The Gods are testing us," the Pope said smoothly, sipping his wine. "Suffering cleanses the soul, Majesty. It is the tithe we pay for their protection."
"Protection?" Leonus slammed his fist on the table. "Where is the protection? We pray! We burn incense! We built this cathedral! And they give us rot! If this is protection, I would rather take my chances with the demons!"
The air in the room suddenly dropped fifty degrees.
The candles blew out. The stained glass windows rattled in their frames.
A light, blinding and impossible, slammed into the center of the council table. It wasn't the warm light of the sun; it was the cold, clinical light of a star dying.
From the light, the Entity emerged.
The Church called them Angels. Alaric, looking at it, knew that was a lie. It was a construct of geometry and terror. It had no face, only a rotating mask of silver mirrors. Its wings were shards of singing glass that scraped against the stone floor. It smelled of ozone and absolute zero.
"THE SHEPHERDS HAVE FAILED," the Angel spoke. The voice didn't come from a mouth; it vibrated in the teeth of every man in the room. "THE FLOCK IS DISEASED. THE CONTRACT IS BREACHED."
Leonus stood up, trembling but defiant. "We have kept the contract! We have kept the faith!"
"FAITH IS NOT WORDS," the Angel stated. "FAITH IS CURRENCY. AND YOUR ACCOUNTS ARE EMPTY. THE OWNERS DEMAND A LIQUIDATION."
The Angel raised a hand made of light. It pointed at a minor Baroness standing near the pillar.
"DEMONSTRATION," the Angel intoned.
The Baroness screamed. It was a sound that haunted Alaric to this day. She didn't burn. She crystallized. Her blood turned to red glass inside her veins. Her skin became translucent. In seconds, she was a statue of agony, her internal organs visible as frozen, ruby jewels. Then, she shattered. A thousand pieces of red glass clattered to the floor.
The room erupted in panic. Men scrambled over chairs.
"THE HARVEST HAS BEGUN," the Angel announced. "THE BLOOD CURSE IS UPON GAAN. ONLY THE SACRIFICE OF A PURE HEART CAN RENEW THE CONTRACT. FIND THE MARTYR, LITTLE KING. OR WE WILL TURN YOUR ENTIRE CITY INTO GLASS."
The Angel vanished.
Leonus collapsed into his chair, weeping. The Pope, however, looked thoughtful. He leaned over to the King, whispering words that Alaric couldn't hear, words that sounded like the hissing of a snake.
Leonus looked up. He looked at Alaric. His eyes were wide, terrified, and filled with a sudden, horrible resolve.
"A pure heart," Leonus whispered.
The deception required layers.
The Pope claimed that an ancient text spoke of a "Cure" hidden in the Copper Grove, a nectar that could reverse the Blood Curse. It was a lie, a fabrication created to give Alaric hope, to make his eventual despair sweeter for the Gods.
But Alaric didn't know. He was a soldier. He believed in the quest.
Before the expedition departed, Alaric went to the Royal Apartments. He had to see Elara.
She had fallen ill the day the Angel appeared. The doctors said it was the Curse. Alaric had been forbidden from seeing her for three days, told that she needed absolute isolation to slow the crystallization.
He pushed past the guards at her door. "I am seeing my wife," he growled.
He entered the room.
It was freezing. The air was thick with the smell of alchemical salts and heavy lilies—the flowers of the dead. The curtains were drawn tight.
Elara lay in the center of the massive bed. She was pale, her skin like alabaster. Her chest did not rise or fall.
Leonus stepped out of the shadows in the corner. He was flanked by two High Mages who were channeling a steady stream of blue mana into the bed.
"Quiet," Leonus hissed. "She is in stasis."
Alaric rushed to the bedside. He fell to his knees. He took her hand.
It was cold. Not just cool, but the deep, penetrating cold of meat left in the snow.
"Stasis?" Alaric asked, his voice trembling. "She... she isn't moving."
"The crystallization was advancing," Leonus lied, his voice smooth and practiced. "We had to freeze her time. She is suspended between life and death, Alaric. She cannot hear you. She cannot feel you. But she is alive. Barely."
Alaric looked at his wife's face. It was peaceful, devoid of the pain she must have felt. He squeezed her hand. There was no response. No squeeze back. No flutter of the pulse.
He didn't know he was holding a corpse. He didn't know that she had died three nights ago, screaming his name, and that Leonus had simply ordered the mages to preserve the body to use as a prop.
Alaric projected his own life into her silence.
"I'm going, Elara," he whispered, pressing the cold hand to his cheek. "I'm going to the Copper Grove. Leonus says there is a cure. I will find it. I will tear the world apart to find it."
He waited for a sign. A breath. Anything.
The silence of the room was absolute. It was a heavy, oppressive weight.
"She is waiting for you," Leonus said, placing a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "But she won't wait forever. The stasis spell is fragile. We have to go now."
Alaric stood up. He looked at Leonus. "If she dies while I am gone..."
"She won't," Leonus promised. "Because you are going to save her. You are the Shield, Alaric. This is what you were born for."
Alaric looked back at Elara one last time. He imprinted her face on his mind. He used that image to fuel his resolve.
He didn't know he was looking at the bait in a trap.
"Let's go," Alaric said, his voice hardening into steel. "I have a god to kill."
Part 3: The Altar of Mud
The march to the Copper Grove took seven days. It was a journey through a dying world.
The countryside of Gaan was already succumbing to the Angel's curse. They passed villages where the inhabitants stood in the town squares, frozen into statues of red glass, caught in mid-scream or mid-prayer. The birds had fallen from the sky, shattering on impact. The rivers were thick sludge.
Alaric rode at the head of the column, flanked by the Royal Guard—men he had trained, men he trusted with his life. Leonus rode beside him, silent, wrapped in a heavy cloak, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
"We're close," Alaric said on the seventh day, pointing to the treeline ahead.
The Copper Grove was a wound in the earth. The trees were not wood; they were twisted pillars of copper and rust, their leaves sharp metal that chimed in the wind. The ground was black, oily mud that sucked at the horses' hooves. The air tasted of battery acid.
They dismounted at the edge of the grove. The horses refused to go further, rolling their eyes and foaming at the mouth.
"On foot," Alaric ordered. "Draw steel. The Hag is here."
They marched into the grove. The silence was deafening. There were no insects, no wind, only the squelch of boots in the mud.
They reached the center. A massive weeping willow stood there, its branches dripping with red moss that looked like clots of blood.
"Where is the altar?" Alaric asked, scanning the area. "Where is the nectar?"
He turned to Leonus.
Leonus was standing ten paces back. He wasn't looking for the cure. He was looking at the ground, weeping.
"Leo?" Alaric asked, confusion clouding his mind.
"I'm sorry, brother," Leonus whispered.
"Take him," the Captain of the Guard ordered.
Alaric spun around. The men he had trained—Torian, Kael, the others—lunged at him.
Alaric was fast, but he was confused. He didn't want to hurt them. He hesitated for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Four heavy nets, weighted with cold iron, were thrown over him. Then came the chains. Heavy, enchanted chains that burned his armor.
"What is this treason?!" Alaric roared, throwing two men off him. He reached for his sword, but a mace struck his wrist, shattering the bone.
They piled on him. Ten men. Twenty. They dragged him down into the mud. They pinned his arms, his legs, his neck.
Alaric struggled, his strength enhanced by adrenaline, but the weight was too much. He looked up from the mud, spitting black filth.
"Leonus!" Alaric screamed. "Help me! They are traitors!"
Leonus walked forward. The Royal Guards parted to let him through. The King stood over his kneeling, chained friend.
"They are not traitors, Alaric," Leonus said, his voice trembling. "They are patriots. And so am I."
"What?" Alaric gasped, the chains tightening around his throat.
"There is no cure," Leonus said. He looked old, broken. "The Angel didn't ask for a potion. It asked for a sacrifice. A heart of pure faith, broken by absolute despair. That is the only thing the Gods eat, Alaric. Suffering."
Alaric shook his head, denial warring with the horror. "No... Elara... we came for Elara..."
Leonus closed his eyes. Tears leaked out. "Elara is dead, Alaric."
The world stopped.
"She died three days before we left," Leonus confessed, the words tumbling out like stones. "The stasis... it was a lie. It was a preservation spell to keep the body from rotting. I needed you to believe she was alive. I needed you to have hope. Because if you didn't have hope... your despair wouldn't be tasty enough for them."
The scream that left Alaric's throat was not human. It was the sound of a soul fracturing.
"You... you made me kiss a corpse?" Alaric roared, straining against the chains until his armor creaked. "You used her? You used me?"
"I saved the Kingdom!" Leonus shouted back, trying to justify the horror. "I traded one man for a million! It is the math of Kings, Alaric! I had no choice!"
"I would have died for you!" Alaric screamed. "I would have given my life for you! You didn't have to lie!"
"Yes, I did," Leonus whispered. "Because a willing sacrifice isn't despair. It's just martyrdom. They wanted betrayal."
The sky ripped open. The purple light descended. The Angel appeared above the willow tree.
"EXQUISITE," the Angel hummed. "THE FLAVOR IS RICH."
A beam of necrotic light hit Alaric. It didn't burn his flesh; it burned his essence. It reached into his chest and began to pull. It felt like hooks in his soul. It was dragging his love, his honor, his memories, and feeding them into the void.
Alaric convulsed. He watched Leonus turn his back.
"Don't look at him," Leonus ordered the troops. "March. We are done here."
The King walked away. The soldiers followed, leaving Alaric alone in the light.
"Leonus!" Alaric choked. "Leo!"
The light intensified. Alaric felt his heart stop. He felt the darkness take him.
The Angel finished its meal. Sated, it vanished, ascending back to the cruel heavens.
Silence returned to the grove.
Alaric lay in the mud. He was dead. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.
Then, the roots of the willow tree moved.
The Blood Hag slithered out. She was ancient, her skin the color of a drowned corpse. She crawled over to the body of the Knight. She sniffed him.
"Wasteful," she hissed. "They ate the light, but they left the hate. And the hate is the best part."
She reached into the mud. She grabbed Alaric's cold, armored hand.
"Wake up, little dog," she whispered. "The King is gone. But the hunt is just beginning."
She placed a hand on his chest. Violet energy surged.
In the mud, a finger twitched.
Then, a red light flickered to life deep within the visor.
The Iron Pillar was gone. The Wolf was waking up.