Chapter 87: Throne Of Drakwyne
The hall of Drakwyne was vast and built for intimidation. Its walls were carved from black stone and reinforced with iron plates bolted directly into the rock. Torches burned at fixed intervals, their flames steady, filling the space with heat and smoke. The floor was stained dark in places where blood had soaked into the stone over the years and never entirely faded.
At the far end of the hall sat the throne, which was made of bone and iron. Skulls of wolves, humans, and creatures no longer named were embedded into its frame. They were not arranged neatly. Some were cracked. Some were missing jaws. Others were burned. They were reminders.
A hooded figure sat upon it, his posture rigid, his hands resting on the armrests as if restraining himself from tearing the throne apart. His face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, but his voice filled the hall without effort. It was deep, controlled, and dangerous.
"I told you to pull out our men."
The words were not shouted, but they carried weight. The two messengers kneeling before the throne flinched as if struck. Their shoulders were stiff, their breathing uneven.
"My lord," one of them said carefully, "the order reached Lycanthria too late. By the time it arrived, the heiress had acted on her plans."
The hooded figure leaned forward slightly.
"Too late," he repeated. "Everything is always too late with you people."
The second messenger swallowed. "The Wanderers stationed right in the hall were exposed. We discovered the heiress deployed a powder in the hall before they could retreat. The Lycanthrians moved faster than expected."
A low murmur spread across the hall. The elders of the Wanderers stood in a loose semicircle, their faces drawn and tense. These were beings who had survived decades of conflict, exile, and secrecy, yet now their fear was visible.
One elder stepped forward. His voice trembled despite his effort to control it.
"This changes everything," the elder said. "We were uncovered by something we do not understand. A powder—something so simple—destroyed many of our kind. If Lycanthria has found a way to expose us so easily, then our end is approaching."
Another elder followed. "We do not even know what it was. I heard it burned through our defenses, weakening their bodies. We have survived fire, steel, and spells before. This was different."
The hooded figure raised his hand.
"Enough."
The sound cut through the hall sharply. The elders fell silent.
"You speak as if the powder is the threat," he said. "It is not."
He stood slowly, the sound of metal shifting beneath his cloak echoing in the space.
"You think what happened in Lycanthria is the worst of it," he continued. "You are wrong. There is something else moving. Something far more dangerous than a chemical weapon or a trained pack of soldiers."
He stepped down from the throne, boots striking the stone floor with controlled force.
"And fear will bring it closer," he said. "Every time you panic, every time you hesitate, you shorten the distance between yourselves and extinction."
No one argued with him.
"Our plans failed this time," the figure said. "That does not mean they will fail again. Failure only matters if we allow it to stop us."
He turned his attention back to the kneeling messengers.
"The vessel, was her body recovered?"
The messengers exchanged a glance.
"That pause answers the question?" the hooded figure said calmly.
"Our findings show that her body was not among the confirmed dead," the first messenger said. "Several remains were damaged beyond identification, but based on tracking and blood analysis, she was not accounted for."
"So she escaped," the hooded figure said.
"It is likely," the messenger confirmed.
The figure straightened.
"Then find her," he said. "Search every border, every ruin, every one of our cells that took in survivors. I want her located immediately."
"If she is alive," he continued, "then it is time for her to fulfill what she was created for. She has delayed long enough."
"Yes, my lord," the messengers said in unison.
One of the elders shifted uneasily. "And Eirene?" he asked cautiously.
The hooded figure stopped moving.
The messenger answered quickly. "She was captured during the operations. She is currently detained with others of our kind in the palace dungeons. Heavy restraints. No external contact."
The hooded figure let out a short, dismissive sound.
"She is useless to us now. Just let her be."
The elders reacted immediately.
"She is one of our most trusted allies in Lycanthria," one elder said, stepping forward before he could stop himself. "If the vessel finds out you let her mother rot, she may challenge this decision."
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop, though nothing physical changed.
"I am fully aware of who she is, and I am also aware of what she failed to do. I’ll deal with the vessel myself." The hooded figure said, turning toward the elder.
"But my lord—"
"She was given one task. One. She failed. She’s the reason we lost some of our kind in Lycanthria."
Another elder pressed on, voice strained. "Punishing her could weaken us. Eirene knows too much about our world. She understands the balance between restraint and action. She was raised to—"
"She was raised to obey; instead, she didn’t fulfill her mission!"
Silence followed.
"Let Eirene face the consequences of her failure. If she breaks under them, then she was never strong enough to matter."
No one defended Eirene again. The hooded figure took a step back toward the throne.
"Nothing matters except the vessel," he said. "She is not a person. She is a tool. She is the only thing capable of ensuring our survival."
Before anyone could respond, hurried footsteps echoed through the hall.
Another messenger rushed in, breathing hard, and dropped to one knee.
"My lord," he said. "A cell has been attacked. A troupe of Lycanthrian soldiers crossed the border at first light. They struck one of our settlements."
The hooded figure closed his eyes briefly.
"Which territory?" he asked.
"The southern ridge near the old river routes." The messenger replied.
The figure’s hand tightened into a fist. "So they have decided to declare war." He turned sharply. "General!"
A tall figure stepped forward from the shadows. His armor was dark and marked with old insignia. He knelt immediately.
"You will lead our forces to Emberspire Pack," the hooded figure said. "You will eradicate the settlement."
The general did not hesitate. "And the young wolves?"
"Kill the Alpha. Kill the elders. Do whatever you want with women. Capture and bring the young ones," the figure replied.
The reaction was immediate.
"That will provoke total war," an elder shouted.
"Emberspire had no involvement in Lycanthria’s actions!" Another elder added.
"They are wolves," the hooded figure said. "That is sufficient reason."
Another elder stepped forward, panic breaking through his composure. "If we start by eradicating major packs, they are likely to unite with Lycanthria against us. They will build up armies stronger than ours and—"
The hooded figure raised his hand. The elder’s mouth sealed shut instantly. No sound escaped, no matter how hard he struggled. His eyes widened in terror as he dropped to his knees.
"I did not ask for commentary; if the wolves want war, then war is what they will receive." He lowered his hand. The elder collapsed forward, gasping.
The hooded figure turned back to the general. "You move tonight, you should get there before the next full moon appears. I’m sure something great will happen at Emberspire soon." He said. "No mercy. No delays. Bring me the children alive."
The general bowed. "It will be done."
As the general and some soldiers exited the hall, the hooded figure returned to his throne and sat once more.
"Find the vessel, everything else is secondary." He said to the two messengers. "Court dismissed."
The elders began to file out, each bearing their opinions in their minds as they dared not let them out. The torches burned steadily as the hall emptied. The hooded figure remained seated, unmoving, already planning what would come next.
