—Lucian's POV—
---
The war table stretched long and cold beneath the council court-chamber's high, arched ceiling—an iron spine in the heart of Bloodfang Keep.
Torches flickered continuously against the stone walls casting shadows which shifted like silent witnesses. Around the table, the council murmured. Not loud. Never loud. But enough to scrape at my nerves.
I sat at the head, gauntleted hands resting on the map splayed before me—parchment inked with borders, movement reports, and contested ridgelines.
The Varinth rise. And the whispers of a southern tribe falling under mysterious attacks.
But none of them felt immediate. None of them felt like the threat that tightened my chest in the quietest hours of the night.
The Varinth Clan was older than most remembered — a bloodline carved from obsidian cliffs and forgotten wars. Where Bloodfang ruled with steel and strategy, Varinth endured through shadow and silence. Their territory stretched across the mountain's throat, threaded with deep pine forests and ravines no map could fully trace. They built into the land, not atop it—fortresses veiled by mists, roads swallowed by root and stone. Outsiders rarely returned with clear reports, only vague tales of carved totems, flickering runes, and eyes that watched from trees too ancient to name.
They were not numerous. But they didn't need to be. Each warrior of Varinth was said to fight like ten — not because of brute strength, but because they moved like ghosts and struck like prophecy. Their Alpha had not been seen in years, yet rumors stirred of one who spoke with spirits and ruled by vision, not force. Some said Varinth was dying. Others whispered it had merely gone quiet… to listen.
---
Arienne stood at my left.
Poised. Composed. Her crimson braid glinting like wine-soaked steel. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her ceremonial blade, but her smile was sharper than the steel.
"Reports have reached us from our scouts sent to the area surrounding the Varinth clan." Arienne's voice came.
"Feedback suggests that they are either they're preparing for war or hiding something worse."
"Our scouts certainly have confirmed movement," said Elder Thorne, voice like gravel soaked in smoke. "But it's scattered. No sign of a united front."
"It wouldn't be the first time Varinth played coy," added Councilor Myra. "They act feral to mask strategy. Their bloodline isn't as diluted as most believe."
"Perhaps," Arienne said, "but even feral wolves break when pressed."
She glances at me. Expectant.
I say nothing.
---
Because something else had unsettled me all morning.
It began just before dawn—a cold spike behind my ribs. Like a memory I hadn't earned. A pulse of fear, not mine.
And for the briefest moment, I smelled smoke. Pine. And something older.
A dream, maybe. Or guilt.
Or something worse.
---
"My lord?" Arienne prompted.
I blinked, fingers tightening over the table's edge. I look at the map before me, pooling my knowledge and experience to make a decision.
"We won't strike yet."
A beat of silence ensued.
"Why not?" Arienne asked beside me, her voice sharper now. "We have their border mapped, their numbers scattered. A show of force could end this before winter deepens."
"We don't move until I say so." I say, standing my ground.
"I definitely won't send our warriors into snowblind terrain without knowing exactly what we're stepping into, it would be plain foolishness on our part, should we just charge." I said, voice low but cutting. "Scattered movement doesn't mean weakness—it could mean they're moving beneath the surface, like ice just before it cracks. And if it is a trap, then we're not launching a strike... we're marching into a grave they have dug for us in silence."
I dragged my fingers along the edge of the war map, stopping at a narrow ridge. "This route... this route here which has been abandoned for years—suddenly shows clean boot prints with no signs of struggle, no scent, no haste. That's not panic. That's precision. They want us to see just enough to tempt a response. But that's not strategy—it's seduction. And until I know who is pulling the strings and why, I will not let Bloodfang bleed on a battlefield of someone else's making."
I straightened, letting the silence stretch, my eyes sweeping the chamber like a blade drawn slow.
"Until I say otherwise, we hold the line."
The finality in my tone silenced the room. Thorne looked vaguely pleased. Arienne's jaw flexed.
She said nothing.
But she didn't need to.
---
After the meeting, I stayed behind.
The chamber emptied slowly, like blood from a shallow wound. Arienne left last, casting one final glance my way—one part warning, one part disappointment.
I didn't watch her go.
Instead, I turned to the stained-glass window behind the council seat. It cast fractured colors across the floor—red, gold, frost-blue. Bloodfang's crest shimmered among them: a fang surrounded by flames.
And in the space between colors…
I thought of her.
Lyra.
Not her face. Not her voice.
Just a presence.
A sharpness in the air. A warmth in the cold.
A pressure behind my ribs that wouldn't go away.
---
I clenched my jaw.
It wasn't real. The bond was severed. I did it myself, five months ago...
I watched her fall.
I turned away.
And yet… something inside me stirred every time the wind shifted.
---
A knock at the council door.
Thorne entered, holding a scroll in one gnarled hand.
"Scouts found something near the Frostfang line," he said. "Old fire pit. Strange tracks. Clean kill strung from a tree with sage."
My throat tightened.
"Rogues?" I asked.
"Possibly. Or a warning. Could also be… remnants."
"Of?"
He hesitated...