[ Southern borders of the Avaloria Empire ]
Ash hung in the air, trailing above rows of battered tents sprawled across the barren ground. War-wearied soldiers staggered about with bandaged limbs and grim faces.
Inside Reynard’s command tent, the duke looked up as a tall figure entered—a man with dark blue hair and equally dark eyes. His features were sharp, his aura even sharper, but there was sothing different about him now.
’Azrael,’ Reynard thought, imdiately recognizing the visitor. For all the tis they’d fought and strategized together, Reynard was used to the other’s face being marred with old, wicked scars. He blinked, realizing only now that Azrael’s skin was completely unblemished.
Reynard’s brow furrowed. "How did you fix that ugly face of yours? No offense."
Azrael’s lips curled in a faint smile. "None taken, mortal. I’m just as surprised as you. Scars that couldn’t heal no matter what—fixed in only a few minutes. Still doesn’t feel real."
"Who did it?" Reynard asked, suspicion growing.
Azrael tilted his head. "You already know."
A mont of clarity flickered in Reynard’s eyes. "Oh."
He couldn’t help a half-smirk. "That kid is really sothing else, isn’t he?"
The air changed as Azrael’s expression beca serious. "So, what’s the situation here? You look like you’re hanging by a thread."
Reynard’s jaw tightened. "Most of the southern territory is lost."
Azrael’s eyes darkened. "How much?"
"Let’s talk inside," Reynard said quietly.
They ducked behind the flaps. Inside, three battered battalion commanders stood at grim attention.
Reynard explained, "The southern land was divided into four sectors. We built defensive lines for each. Over the last three months, we lost two... and just yesterday, the third one fell."
Azrael’s eyes narrowed. "So this is the last line before the enemy breaks into the main land of thesouthern province which is unguarded.?"
Reynard nodded stiffly. "Even this line was attacked today. Over half the soldiers are dead or wounded. There’s hardly any hope for recovery."
Silence thudded through the tent. The commanders carried the weight of a nation on their shoulders.
Azrael’s voice was low and cold. "So we’re already on the brink of destruction."
One commander broke the gloom. "We’d have been utterly wiped out already, if not for Sir Reynard risking his life to defend us ti after ti."
Azrael glanced at Reynard, a shadow of respect flickering in his eyes. "You have good people with you, Duke."
"That’s what makes it harder to see them die for nothing," Reynard muttered.
Azrael drew a breath. "Tell about these enemies of yours."
Reynard nodded, jaw set. "It’s nothing like we’ve seen before. And it’s not just one group—different races on all the borders. Here, we face the Lycans."
The ntion sent a chill through the tent.
"Their attacks are beyond prediction,"
Reynard went on. "No fixed patterns. And the worst is their power—they transform into wolves. When they do, even an ordinary soldier rivals a Master-rank. Sotis the strongest Lycans kill Grandmasters as if they’re children. At night... their strength multiplies."
Another commander jumped in, the despair raw in his voice. "Hundreds of our Grandmasters have died in their jaws. We’ve tried everything—traps, magic, the best tech we had—but it never works. They break through it like sticks."
A third looked at Reynard, frowning. "Commander... no offense, but why are we telling him everything? He’s just one man. What can he do?"
Before Reynard could reply, an alarm blared outside. A soldier burst into the tent, out of breath.
"We’re under attack—Lycans—approaching fast!"
Everyone straightened. Reynard’s leadership snapped into focus.
"Don’t panic. Everyone, positions!" he barked.
Azrael gave the doubting commander a sidelong look. "Guess we’re about to see if I make a difference or not."
Shouts and tension rose as soldiers spilled out from their tents, grabbing whatever weapons they could.
From the blackened edge of the southern plain, dark figures began to erge. At first, they looked like n, but as the distance closed, sharp features ca into focus: elongated ears, thick tails dragging behind them, fur running up their spines.
There were at least a thousand of them.
Fear rippled through the human lines at the sight.
Then, from the Lycan ranks, a towering figure strode forward. He was massive, with bristling silver fur overlaying rippling muscle. His hands ended in claws, and the lower jaw stretched just slightly in a predatory way. His eyes glittered with intelligence—and pure malice.
He smiled, pleased by the terror he saw in the faces before him.
Reynard stepped to the front, aura blazing with transcendent might. The Lycan leader’s smile simply grew.
His own troops barked and howled, clawed hands flexing. "Commander, just give the word! We’ll tear their throats out!"
The leader lifted a hand. "Silence." Instantly, the noise died away.
He looked over the field. "Listen well, humans! My na is Dran, loyal subject of my king." His voice bood. "You must already realize you’re fighting a losing battle. I’ll give you one more chance. Drop your weapons, submit to our king. You’ll live... as slaves. Refuse, and I promise death will be slow."
Rage sparked in Reynard’s eyes. "Over my dead body!" he yelled. "I would die a hundred tis before I let you make slaves of my people. My pride as a Crestvale will never allow it!"
Dran’s grin faded. "So be it. Attack—"
But before he could finish, another voice cut through the gathering bloodlust—a darkly amused voice.
"I’ll also give you a chance," Azrael called out, stepping forward. "You can co serve my king. He might be the worst boss you’ll ever find, and there’s not a shred of kindness in him, but... it’s entertaining, I’ll give you that. In fact, for you, you might make a perfect pet."
Dran’s head snapped toward Azrael, hackles raising, caught completely off-guard by that insolent challenge in the heart of a losing battlefield.
----
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