Part 1: The Boy in the Mud
The memory began not with a scream, but with the heavy, rhythmic thud of an iron knocker against wood.
It was the sound of the world changing. It was the sound of a door opening that would never truly close again, a heavy, reverberating note that signaled the end of childhood and the beginning of servitude.
Alaric was ten years old. He stood at the Service Gate of the Royal Palace of Gaan, a massive structure of reinforced oak and iron banding that looked more like the entrance to a dungeon than a home. The wood was dark, stained by centuries of rain and soot, and the iron was cold to the touch. He was not dragged there in chains, nor pulled screaming from a home he didn't want to leave. He stood there willingly, his back straight, his chin lifted in a defiant imitation of the soldiers he had seen marching through his village. He wore a tunic that was too small for his broad shoulders, the roughspun fabric pulling tight across his chest, scratching at his skin. He clutched a long object wrapped in oilcloth against his side as if it were a limb he couldn't afford to lose.
It was his father's sword. It was a simple blade, forged of common steel, but to Alaric, it was a holy relic.
His father had not been a laborer, nor a simple soldier. He had been Ser Davin, a knight of the Outer Rim—a title that carried honor but no gold, a title that meant you stood on the wall in the freezing rain while the lords in the capital slept under down comforters. Ser Davin had died three months ago at the Battle of the Black Ford, holding a wooden bridge against a raiding party of Northern Marauders. He had held the line alone for an hour, armed with this very sword, so the villagers behind him could escape into the hills. The King—Leonus's father, the stern and distant King Aethelgard—had sent a medal of stamped tin and a letter of condolence written by a scribe who hadn't even spelled Davin's name correctly.
Alaric remembered the funeral. He remembered the rain turning the grave dirt to thick, clinging mud that threatened to swallow his boots. He remembered the smell of wet wool, the sound of the priest rushing through the rites to get out of the storm, and the heavy, suffocating silence of the small cottage afterwards.
But the months after that...
Alaric, floating in the strange, disjointed ether of his own subconscious, frowned. He tried to reach for the memory of his mother during that interim time. He tried to remember her face in the weeks following the funeral. He tried to remember why he was alone now standing at this gate. He knew she had been there. He knew she had held him while he cried, her hands smelling of flour and lavender. But the end?
Static.
A wall of grey, buzzing silence slammed down in his mind. It was a physical pain, a spike driven into his temple. Every time he tried to look at that specific period of time—the three months between the funeral and the gate—the world blurred. It was as if that chapter of his life had been excised, cut out with a scalpel and thrown into a fire by a protective mechanism he didn't understand. He knew she was gone. He felt the hollow ache of her absence in his chest, a void shaped like a mother's love that nothing could ever fill. But he couldn't remember how. Did she sicken? Did she leave? Did she die of a broken heart?
The memory simply refused to load. It was a blank page in a book of tragedies.
So, he focused on the gate. He focused on the mission.
"Name?" the gatekeeper grunted, looking down from his booth. He was a fat man with grease stains on his tabard, chewing on a chicken leg with open-mouthed indifference. He looked at Alaric as if he were a stray cat begging for scraps.
"Alaric," the boy said. His voice was steady, imitating the baritone of the father he idolized. "Son of Ser Davin. The Church sent for me. They said... they said the Crown honors its debts."
The gatekeeper checked a ledger, running a dirty finger down the list of names. He squinted at the parchment. "Ah. The orphan. The 'Ward of the State.' Go on. The Warmaster is expecting you in the lower barracks. Don't expect a feather bed, boy. Charity comes with chores. We don't feed mouths that don't bite."
Alaric walked through the gate. He gripped the oilcloth-wrapped sword tighter. He wasn't here for charity. He was here to serve. He was here to be what his father was: a shield. He was here to pay back the debt of existence that he felt he owed simply for surviving when his father hadn't.
The Palace was too bright. That was his first impression. The sun hit the white marble and reflected everywhere, blinding him. In the borderlands, the light was grey, filtered through the smoke of watchfires and the mist of the moors. Here, it was aggressive. It exposed every patch on his tunic, every speck of dirt under his fingernails, every inadequacy. The air smelled different here—sweet, cloying, masking the scent of the city below.
He was processed efficiently by the household staff. His father's sword was taken from him—"Too big for you, boy, we'll keep it in the armory until you grow into it"—which felt like losing a limb. He tried to protest, but a sharp cuff to the ear silenced him. He was washed in cold water, his head shaved to military standards to prevent lice, and given the grey training fatigues of a squire.
Then, he was released into the Royal Courtyard.
It was a place of manicured hedges cut into the shapes of mythical beasts, white marble fountains spraying crystal-clear water, and children who smelled like vanilla and rosewater. It was a playground for the future rulers of the world, a place where the harsh realities of the borderlands felt like a bad dream.
Alaric stood by a fountain, unsure of where to go. He felt like a rough stone in a bag of polished gems. He stood at attention, staring straight ahead, waiting for orders that didn't come. He was invisible to the servants, and an oddity to the nobles.
"Look at that," a voice sneered. "The scarecrow has arrived."
Alaric turned.
Standing there was a boy of twelve. He was chubby, his face flushed with the easy health of someone who had never missed a meal. He wore a velvet doublet with silver threading and a small ceremonial dagger at his hip that had clearly never cut anything tougher than cheese.
It was Vane. Even then, the future High Commander had the eyes of a bully—small, piggy, and cruel. He was surrounded by sycophants even then.
Flanking Vane were three other noble children, the sons of Dukes and Earls, giggling behind their hands. And sitting on a stone bench nearby, looking bored and uncomfortable, was a golden-haired boy with a book on his lap.
Prince Leonus.
And beside Leonus, swinging her legs and eating an apple, was a small girl in a pink dress. She had the same golden hair as the Prince, but her eyes were sharper, more observant.
Princess Elara.
Leonus didn't look at Alaric. He looked at the sky, at the birds, at anything but the boy standing at attention by the fountain. He seemed to shrink into his clothes, wishing to be invisible, wishing to avoid confrontation.
"What's your name, scarecrow?" Vane demanded, stepping closer. He held a riding crop, tapping it against his boot.
"Alaric," the boy said. "Son of Ser Davin."
"Ser Davin?" Vane mocked, testing the name like it was a bad taste. "Never heard of him. Probably died in a ditch somewhere running from goblins."
Alaric's jaw tightened. He felt a flash of hot anger, but he swallowed it. "He died holding the Black Ford. He saved the village."
"Saved the village," Vane laughed, looking at his friends for validation. "Hear that? His father died for pig farmers. How noble. How... quaint."
Vane looked around. His eyes landed on a wooden toy soldier lying on the bench next to Leonus. It was a finely carved piece, painted in the royal colors.
Vane snatched it up.
"Hey!" Leonus protested weakly, reaching for it. "That's mine. Give it back, Vane."
"Relax, Highness," Vane grinned. "I'm just testing the new livestock."
Vane looked at the ornamental koi pond in the center of the courtyard. The water was deep, green with algae, and cold.
Vane threw the toy soldier.
It splashed into the center of the pond, scattering the bright orange fish. It bobbed there, drifting toward the drain.
"The Prince needs his soldier," Vane announced, a cruel smile spreading across his face. He turned to Alaric. "You said your father was a hero, right? A shield? Well, prove it. Be useful. Go get it."
Alaric looked at the toy bobbing in the water. He looked at Leonus.
The Prince finally looked up. His blue eyes met Alaric's. There was no command in them, but no help either. Leonus just watched, passive, accepting the cruelty of his peers as the natural order of the world. He looked small, despite his fine clothes. He looked like he needed a shield.
Elara, however, stopped eating her apple. She glared at Vane. "That's mean, Vane. The water is filthy. Leave him alone."
"Quiet, Elara," Vane snapped. "This is men's business. Go back to your dolls."
He turned back to Alaric. "Well? Go on! Fetch! Or are you too good to serve the Crown? Maybe we should send you back to the gate."
"Fetch!" the other noble children chanted. "Fetch, dog! Fetch!"
Alaric didn't argue. He remembered his father's words before he rode out to the Ford. Duty isn't about glory, Alaric. It's about doing the dirty work so others don't have to.
Alaric walked into the water.
He didn't know how to swim. The bottom of the pond was slick with slime. Ideally, he would have waded, but the drop-off was sudden. He went under. The cold water filled his nose and mouth. He thrashed, panic seizing him, but he forced his limbs to move. He kicked upward, breaking the surface, gasping.
Laughter erupted from the dry land.
"Look at him paddle!" Vane howled. "Like a wet rat! Look at the hero's son!"
Alaric ignored them. He focused on the toy. He dog-paddled through the scum, his heavy wool tunic weighing him down like chainmail. He grabbed the wooden soldier.
He swam back to the edge and hauled himself out. He was dripping wet, shivering violently, covered in green algae. He ruined the aesthetic of the courtyard.
He walked over to Vane, holding out the toy.
Vane recoiled, pinching his nose. "Ugh! You smell like the swamp! Get away from me." He pointed at Leonus. "Give it to your master."
Alaric turned to Leonus. He walked to the stone bench, leaving wet footprints on the marble. He held the toy out with two shaking hands, head bowed.
"For... for you, Highness," Alaric chattered, his teeth clacking together.
Leonus looked at the toy. It was slimy. He looked at the boy. He saw the shivering. He saw the desperate need to fulfill his duty, the terrifying commitment in the boy's eyes.
Leonus took the toy. He wiped the slime off on his velvet pants.
"Thank you," Leonus whispered.
"Good dog," Vane said, stepping up behind Alaric and patting him hard on the head, like one would pet a hound. "That's a good dog. You listen well. Keep listening, and maybe we'll let you eat the scraps."
Alaric stood there, freezing, humiliated, but unbroken. He caught Elara's eye. She wasn't laughing. She looked at him with a strange, fierce curiosity, as if she were trying to solve a puzzle.
That was the day the name was born. The Dog.
And Alaric accepted it. Because a dog had a master. And a master gave a dog a purpose. And without a purpose, Alaric was just an orphan with a dead father and a missing mother.
Being a dog was better than being nothing.
Part 2: The Shadow and the Light
The memory shifted. The years bled forward like ink in water, coalescing into the sharp, vivid colors of young adulthood.
Alaric was twenty. The malnutrition of his childhood was a distant memory, replaced by the dense, corded muscle of a man who had lived in armor since puberty. He was the King's Shield in all but name, the silent wall that stood between Leonus and the world.
They were in the Southern Marches. The War of the Hill Tribes.
It was supposed to be a skirmish, a quick campaign to "blood" the Prince and give him some medals before his coronation. But the tribes had united under a shaman-king, and the Gaanish forces were woefully unprepared. The campaign had turned into a muddy, bloody slog that had dragged on for six months.
The memory smelled of rain, mud, and the copper tang of blood. It was a grey world, drained of color.
Alaric stood in the command tent. Leonus was pacing, his face pale, his hands shaking as he poured wine. The maps on the table showed their lines collapsing. The red markers of the enemy were encircling the blue markers of Gaan.
"We need to retreat," Leonus whispered, his voice trembling. "They're going to overrun the left flank. We have to fall back to the river. If we stay here, we die."
"If we fall back," Alaric said, his voice calm, a rock in the stream of Leonus's panic, "the heavy infantry will be slaughtered. We have to hold. The reinforcements are coming."
"We can't hold!" Leonus snapped, fear making him aggressive. "We don't have the strength! Gaan is weak, Alaric! We've always been weak! We are a kingdom of farmers pretending to be soldiers!"
Then, the horns blew.
Not the brass horns of Gaan. The deep, guttural horns of the North.
"Reinforcements," a scout yelled, bursting into the tent, mud spattered across his face. "From Dolbey! King Valdemar has sent aid!"
Leonus sagged with relief, nearly dropping his goblet. "Thank the Gods. Allies."
Alaric followed Leonus out of the tent. They watched as the Dolbey delegation crested the hill.
It wasn't an army. It was a hunting party.
There were only fifty of them, clad in dark, heavy iron that absorbed the light. And leading them was him.
The cousin.
Alaric didn't know his name. No one spoke it. He was simply the "Wolf" of Dolbey. He rode a horse that looked too small for him, a beast that foamed at the mouth under his weight. He wore the pelt of a direwolf over his armor, and his presence was a physical weight on the battlefield.
He had too much of everything. Too much height. Too much muscle. Too much violence in his posture.
The Gaanish soldiers cheered at the sight of the banner. They thought they were saved. They thought the heroes had arrived.
Then the Dolbey knights hit the enemy line.
It wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.
Alaric watched, a cold pit forming in his stomach, as the cousin tore through the Hill Tribes. He didn't just kill them; he broke them. He wielded a greatsword one-handed, cleaving men in half, horse and rider alike. He moved with a brutality that turned the stomachs of the Gaanish veterans. He laughed as he fought, a sound that carried over the screams of the dying.
The cheer in the Gaanish lines died. The relief turned to a cold, creeping terror. They realized that the "help" was more dangerous than the enemy. They realized that they were watching a predator play with its food.
"Look at him," Leonus whispered, standing beside Alaric. "He enjoys it."
Alaric looked at the Wolf. He saw the sheer, overwhelming power. He saw what a true champion looked like—a force of nature that bowed to no one. He saw the difference between a man who fought for duty and a man who fought because he was a monster.
"He fights for Dolbey," Alaric said quietly, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "I fight for you."
Leonus looked at Alaric. For a moment, there was envy in the Prince's eyes. Envy of the cousin's power, and perhaps, envy of Alaric's simple, unshakable purpose.
The memory dissolved, reforming in a quieter, warmer place.
The Royal Library.
Alaric was sitting at a table, nursing a bandaged arm—a souvenir from shielding Leonus from a stray arrow during the campaign. The wound throbbed, but it was a familiar pain.
Elara was there. She was no longer the little girl with the apple. She was a woman of twenty, sharp-witted and beautiful in a way that made Alaric's chest ache. She wasn't wearing court finery; she wore a simple riding habit, dusty from the road. She had ridden out to meet the returning army, ignoring protocol.
She was reading a book on logistics, frowning at the pages.
"He took the credit," Elara said, not looking up. Her voice was tight with anger.
Alaric didn't pretend to misunderstand. "The people need a hero, Elara. They need to believe their Prince drove back the tribes. They need to believe the Crown is strong."
"But he didn't," she snapped, closing the book with a sharp thud. She looked at him, her blue eyes blazing. "You did. You held the line until the Dolbey butchers arrived. You took the arrow meant for his heart. And he stands on the balcony and waves while you sit here bleeding. It isn't right."
"It is my duty," Alaric said, the old mantra rising to his lips automatically.
"Stop saying that!" Elara stood up and walked around the table. She grabbed his uninjured hand. "Duty is what you do for a King. What you do for him... that's martyrdom. You're setting yourself on fire to keep him warm, Alaric. And he doesn't even notice the smoke."
"He is your brother," Alaric said softly. "He is the King."
"And you are my..." She stopped. Her face flushed.
Alaric looked at her. The air in the library suddenly felt very thin. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things.
"I am your what?" he whispered.
Elara looked down at their joined hands. "You are the only man in this castle who tells the truth. You are the only one who doesn't look at me like a political bargaining chip. You are the only one who sees me."
She looked up. "I don't want to be a Princess, Alaric. I don't want to be sold to some Duke in the South to buy grain. I want... I want someone who will stand in the mud for me."
Alaric's heart hammered against his ribs, louder than any war drum. He felt unworthy. He was the Dog. She was the blood of Kings.
"I have nothing to give you," he rasped. "No lands. No title. Just a sword and a bad reputation."
Elara smiled. It was the same smile she had given him in the infirmary years ago—crooked and genuine.
"I don't need lands," she whispered, leaning in. "I need a shield. I need you."
She kissed him.
It wasn't a command. It wasn't a game. It was a surrender. And in that moment, the Dog died, and the Man was born.
Part 3: The Vow in the Garden
The wedding was small. It had to be. A Princess marrying a landless knight was a scandal, barely tolerated because Alaric was the King's favorite "pet" and because Elara had threatened to join a convent if she couldn't marry him.
They were married in the main Palace Chapel, under the watchful gaze of the statues of the Nineteen Kings. It was supposed to be a private affair, but politics had bled into it.
Leonus had been King for over a year now. The boy who had fetched the stick from the pond was gone, replaced by a man who looked ten years older than his age. The crown sat heavy on his brow, and lines of stress were etched deep around his eyes. He didn't smile. He stood at the altar, looking not at the happy couple, but past them.
He was staring at the man sitting in the front pew.
High Pope Benedictus.
The Pope sat in his crimson robes, his face a mask of benevolent boredom. He held a staff of gold, tapping it rhythmically against the stone floor. His presence was a threat. Everyone knew the Crown was in debt to the Church. Everyone knew that Leonus ruled only because the Pope allowed it.
Leonus drank heavily from his goblet throughout the ceremony, his knuckles white as he gripped the stem. He looked like a man trapped in a cage of his own making.
After the vows were spoken, Leonus approached Alaric. He didn't offer a hug. He didn't offer a brotherly clap on the back. He leaned in close, smelling of wine and fear.
"Do you see him?" Leonus whispered, nodding slightly toward the Pope. "He watches us, Alaric. He counts our breaths. He counts our coins."
"I see him," Alaric said, his voice low. "He is just a man."
"No," Leonus hissed. "He is the storm. And I am the Sword of Gaan, Alaric. I am the one who must strike."
Leonus looked Alaric in the eye. The envy and the desperation were naked there.
"But you..." Leonus poked Alaric hard in the chest. "You are not the Sword. You are the Shield. You are the Pillar. You hold the roof up so I can swing the blade. Do you understand? You don't get to rest. You don't get to have a life. You are the wall that keeps the monsters out."
"I understand," Alaric said. "I am your Shield."
"Good," Leonus muttered, turning away to refill his goblet. "Because the monsters are already inside."
The memory shifted, leaving the cold politics of the chapel behind. It moved to the bedroom.
It became hyper-real, saturated with color and feeling. It was the sanctuary they had built together, a small suite of rooms in the East Wing, far away from the Pope, far away from the King, far away from the endless debts.
It was a warm summer night, a year after the wedding. The windows were open, letting in the cool breeze and the scent of the sea. The war was over. The peace had begun, or so they thought.
Alaric lay in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs. Elara lay beside him, her head on his chest. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs. It was a slow, steady rhythm that calmed the storms in his mind.
She was tracing the scars on his chest with her finger.
"This one?" she asked softly.
"Spear. Goblin raid," Alaric rumbled, his voice thick with sleep and contentment.
"And this one?"
"Leonus. Training accident. He slipped with a dagger."
She kissed the scar over his heart. "No more scars, Alaric. We are done with scars. You've bled enough for one lifetime. You've been the Shield long enough."
She shifted, propping herself up on her elbow. Her dark hair fell over her face like a curtain. Her eyes were shining with a secret.
"I want a family, Alaric," she whispered.
Alaric's heart skipped a beat. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand, so used to holding weapons, felt clumsy against her soft skin. He looked at his hand—scarred, calloused, a killer's hand.
"A family?" he asked, his voice filled with a terrified hope. "With me? Elara, look at me. I... I don't know how to be a father. I only know how to be a guard. I only know how to absorb pain."
"Then you will guard them," Elara smiled, tears welling in her eyes. "You will be the best father in Gaan. We will have a son. Or a daughter. It doesn't matter. They will have your strength, Alaric. And my stubbornness."
"A son," Alaric breathed. The idea was intoxicating. A boy who wouldn't have to fetch sticks from the mud. A boy who wouldn't have to bow to bullies like Vane. A boy who would be free.
"Yes," Elara said. She leaned down and kissed him. "We will make a new world, Alaric. Just for us. No Kings. No Popes. No debts. Just us."
They made love then. It wasn't the frantic passion of the war camp. It was slow. It was a prayer. It was two souls trying to weave themselves into a single future, trying to create life in a castle built on death.
Alaric held her close, burying his face in her neck. He smelled the jasmine and the soap and the woman he loved more than life itself.
He felt a profound sense of safety. The "Dog" was gone. He was a husband. He was a father-to-be. He was a man.
As he drifted off to sleep in the memory, holding the love of his life, he whispered her name into the curve of her shoulder. A vow. A promise. A prayer.
"Elara..."
Part 4: The Nightmare's Edge
SNAP.
The reality fractured.
The scent of jasmine vanished, replaced by the smell of ozone, burnt meat, and ancient dust.
The warmth of the bed vanished, replaced by the cold, hard stone of the Throne Room floor.
The soft body of his wife vanished, replaced by the paralysis of a severed spine and the crushing weight of a broken suit of armor.
Alaric was back in the iron coffin. He was back in the dark. He was back in the ruin of his life.
But the echo of the name was still there, hanging in the silence of his mind like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.
Elara.
And then, the voice of Leonus, distorted and cruel, drilled into his mind, overlaying the memory of the vow.
"You are the Shield... but the shield cracked... You failed... Just like her."
The memory of the bedroom—the hope of the child they wanted, the future they had planned—collided with the reality of Leonus's mockery.
Alaric tried to move. He couldn't. The severance was absolute. His body was dead. The Sanguine flow was cut.
But his mind... his mind was burning.
The image of Elara dying.
Not the peaceful, hopeful Elara of his dream. But the Elara of reality.
He saw her in the bedchamber. It was the night he left for the Copper Grove. He had kissed her goodbye. She had felt warm. She had told him to be careful. She had whispered that she loved him.
But Leonus said she died that night.
She died alone. She died screaming for him. And the man he had protected for twenty years—the man he had broken bones for, the man he had killed for, the man he had called brother—had stood by her bed and watched her expire like a candle.
Because she was barren.
Because they had tried for a child and failed. Because she couldn't give the King a nephew to secure the line against the Pope's influence.
Useless, Leonus had called her.
The grief didn't break Alaric. It didn't make him weep.
It ignited him.
It started in the core. The Sanguine moss, which had gone grey and dormant, suddenly pulsed. It sensed the emotion. It sensed the raw, unadulterated hatred pouring off Alaric's soul. It fed on it. It drank the despair and converted it into something kinetic.
The Sanguine entity—the Hag—didn't need to push him anymore. She didn't need to whisper. She simply opened the door.
"Yes," the Hag's voice echoed, not from outside, but from within his own blood. "Let it out. The Dog is dead. Wake the Wolf."
The severed nerves in his neck didn't heal. They were replaced. Black tendrils of shadow wove themselves across the gap in his spine, stitching the connection back together with the thread of pure spite.
Outside, in the Throne Room, Leonus was still gloating.
"You were always too soft for her," Leonus sneered, turning his back on the corpse, looking up at the ruined ceiling. "Too soft for the throne. Too soft for... Elara."
The name hit Alaric like a lightning bolt.
It synced perfectly with the memory.
Elara.
The past and the present slammed together. The love and the hate fused into a single point of singularity.
The red light in the visor flickered.
It wasn't a mechanical restart. It was a resurrection. It was the sound of a beast breaking its chains.
The Dog was gone.
Something else was waking up.