Chapter 78: Drakwyne The Shadow Court
The wind in Drakwyne was always dry. It carried the smell of rot, old stone, and the sharp sting of the dark magic that lived here long before any of the civilized wanderers were born. The open space was surrounded by high walls made from uneven blocks of ancient stone. Some were cracked. Some were broken. A few had markings, dark runes, and ancient writing. The place had once been a building that collapsed centuries ago during the war between the dark shadows and hunters. No one bothered to rebuild it. The ruins served their purpose.
At the center stood a wide altar built from dark stone. The edges were chipped. The surface looked smooth only because of how many lives had touched it. A young male wolf lay tied on top of it. His wrists and ankles were bound with thick restraints made from metallic chains. His eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell steadily. He was alive.
Twenty-four hooded figures surrounded the altar in a wide circle. They wore the same dark cloak, though the lining inside the hoods differed—small symbols stitched in colors representing the covens they led. Each coven belonged to a different area of the Wanderer zones, and not one of them trusted the others entirely. The only thing that held them together was need, not loyalty.
The air around them reeked of rot and decay. For a while, none of them said anything. The entire court waited, heads lowered, bodies still. When the first rumble echoed from the sky, their heads snapped upward all at once. It was as if something invisible tugged at them, forcing their attention upward.
The rumbling continued. Long. Heavy. Repeated. None of them expected the sound.
A figure on the far left spoke first. His voice was thin and shaky. "This is a bad sign," he said. "This only means one thing. Aveloria has accepted her mates."
The words hit the court hard. Several of them turned sharply toward him. Some flinched. Some inhaled in anger. And some let out low curses.
A woman near the front took a step forward. "Impossible. She should not have been able to accept anyone yet. The balance wasn’t supposed to be in her favor."
A shorter figure answered her quickly. "You saw the signs in your dreams, didn’t you? The light around her bloodline altar returned. This was coming."
They all spoke at once.
"It ruins everything."
"We prepared for years."
"Her acceptance destroys half our influence."
"We cannot fight the bonded."
"Destruction! That’s our end!"
The entire court argued. Each person spoke as if their voice mattered more than the others. Some shouted. Some of the reasons listed for the plan’s failure. Others blamed anyone they could think of. The sound rose sharply, overlapping and chaotic.
Then a deep baritonic voice filled the chamber.
"Enough."
It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. The voice vibrated through the open space and settled like a weight on each of their shoulders. Every mouth in the circle closed. Every hooded head turned toward the figure standing on the opposite side of the altar.
He stood slightly apart from the others, his posture straight, his face hidden beneath his hood. Only his voice revealed who he was — the one they all listened to, whether they liked it or not.
Once the silence had settled, another hooded figure spoke from the right side.
"We never should have trusted the daughter," he said. "She was unstable, always fighting between power and fear. She was a weak link."
A breath of agreement passed through several members, but another voice cut in sharply.
"No, the mother was the weak link," the speaker said. "She was more useless than the daughter. But at least she served us without complaint."
Someone else scoffed loudly. "If they were both useless, then why did we offer the daughter the chance to be the vessel? We wasted time and resources. We were too desperate."
Voices rose again, but the deep baritone cut them down with a single word again.
"Quiet."
Silence returned instantly.
He continued, "Arguing will not change anything. Aveloria’s acceptance ceremony only marks the beginning. She is not married. She is not crowned queen. We can break her, or we can break the men. All we need is Discord. If they turn on each other, we gain our chance."
Some figures nodded in agreement. Some rolled their eyes in disagreement.
One of the older members spoke carefully. "The acceptance binds her. She is bonded now. Breaking a bonded pair is difficult. They feel each other’s emotions. Even from a distance."
Another answered quickly. "Nothing is unbreakable. Anger, jealousy, betrayal...these things separate even the strongest. We only need to choose the right pressure point."
But the disagreement did not fade completely. Someone else stepped forward.
"We have Wanderers hidden inside Lycanthria," he said. "If they sense anything unusual from us, they will be hunted. If Aveloria’s bond strengthens her senses, they could be exposed. If they activate by mistake, everything will be ruined."
The baritone voice spoke again, this time firmer.
"Then pull them back."
The hooded circle tensed.
"Pull them back?" someone echoed. "Now?"
"Immediately!"
"It is too risky." Someone argued.
"They are positioned in strategic places—"
"They will be discovered soon," the baritone said in a tone that brooked no argument. "If Aveloria’s senses rise to their peak, every one of our hidden forces could be tracked. I am not willing to lose them for pride or stubbornness."
Without waiting for further debate, he gave the order.
"Every force programmed for war inside the kingdom will retreat immediately."
Two figures broke from the circle at once. They turned and walked toward the exit between the broken pillars, their steps brisk and purposeful. They didn’t speak. They didn’t look back. Their role was clear: deliver the retreat command.
The moment they left, tension rose again. A new voice, cold and almost bored, spoke from somewhere in the back.
"If the mother and daughter are useless," he said, "then it is better to kill them both. Remove the problem at the root. We can take the Witch Queen’s spirit back and search for a better vessel. Someone stronger. Perhaps one of Aveloria’s own mates."
The entire court erupted. It was the loudest chaos so far.
"That is madness."
"Killing Rowena could break the spirit’s control."
"You cannot simply remove her."
"The spirit chose her—"
"She failed."
"We need strength, not loyalty—"
"Her death solves nothing."
"Her death solves everything."
Voices clashed, overlapping louder and louder. The stone walls made the sound echo back at them. Even the unconscious wolf on the altar stirred as if the noise seeped into his dreams.
For a moment, it felt like the court would break into fighting. But then the baritone voice spoke again.
This time, as he raised his voice, the authority in his tone forced them into silence faster than before.
"No one will touch Rowena!"
The court froze.
He stepped forward slightly, enough that the others could see the edge of his jaw beneath the hood.
"Rowena serves a purpose greater than any of you understand," he said. "The Witch Queen’s spirit chose her. If Rowena had not come seeking power, the spirit would have still found her. She was chosen from birth, marked long before she even knew what she wanted."
A figure to his right shifted uncomfortably.
"She is too unstable and—"
"She is destined," the baritone cut in. "Her instability is part of what makes her suitable. You talk as if her path is optional. It is not. She was born to bear a darker vessel."
He paused, then spoke the ancient name. "Thal-Drazhen," A name no one had spoken aloud for years.
The reaction was instant. Several figures stiffened. Two took involuntary steps back. Others lowered their heads.
He continued, "She was born for this. She will bring the darkness into the world the same way Aveloria was born to bring the opposite. They are two halves of a balance none of you seem to respect."
Someone swallowed hard before asking, "Then what is the Witch Queen asking of us now?"
He answered without hesitation.
"She wants our support. And she will have it. No one in this court will harm Rowena. No one will attempt to replace her. No one will interfere with her path."
He let the silence hang before adding. "Rowena is the key to bringing darkness across the world."
A slow chill spread through the court. Some looked at the ground. Some nodded as if they finally understood. Others hid their reluctance.
One of the younger hooded members spoke hesitantly. "If Rowena is the key, how do we use her to bring down Aveloria to fulfill our purpose?"
The baritone answered.
"The Witch Queen has a plan. For now, all we have to do is find ways to break Aveloria."
No one spoke after that. The decision was final.
The air felt heavier around them. The sky rumbled again, weaker this time, but still enough to remind them that Aveloria’s bond had changed the balance of power in the world.
The unconscious wolf on the altar shifted again, a soft groan escaping his lips. No one looked at him. To the court, he was just a resource, nothing more. He had been tied to the altar for a ritual, a part of their grand plan, but seeing that their agents in Lycanthria failed, he’s of no use at least for now.
The baritone turned his head slightly.
"We will reconvene when the retreat is confirmed," he said. "Until then, none of you will act alone. We cannot afford mistakes."
He stepped away from the circle, moving toward the broken archway at the far end of the ruins. His pace was steady and controlled, as if everything that had just happened had gone exactly as he expected.
One by one, the other hooded figures began to leave. Some spoke in low whispers. Some looked tense with worry. Others appeared determined, already thinking of ways to carry out the new plan.
Soon, only three figures remained around the altar.
One leaned closer to the wolf. "Should we wake him?"
"No," another answered. "He stays as he is. The orders were clear."
The third figure looked up once more at the sky, where the last traces of the rumbling faded.
"Aveloria’s bond changes everything," he said quietly. "If we fail to break her before she’s crowned Queen, she and her mates will rise too strong."
The second one exhaled slowly. "Then failing cannot be an option."
They turned and left without another word.
For a long moment, the ruins were silent again. The air felt heavy, like the end of an old Chapter and the beginning of something darker. Eventually, the wolf on the altar opened one eye—tar black. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t move. He listened.
Footsteps faded. Cloaks brushed stone. Voices disappeared down the long passageway.
He closed his eyes again and forced his breathing to stay calm. He had heard everything.
