Magnus's roar shook the cavern, dust raining from the vaulted ceiling as his claws raked the air, the beast within a heartbeat from breaking free. Veyne's scream—raw, desperate—clawed at his instincts, her scent of sweat and blood a beacon beyond the tunnel's green-flame barrier. The obsidian shard hovered above the altar, its darkness pulsing in time with his scar, whispering promises of power that could crush Isabella, unmake the curse, or burn Eryndor to ash.
The Suldari figure watched, its bone mask unyielding, its white eye a cold judge. The ravens swirled, their crimson gazes darting between the shard and the tunnel, as if they, too, weighed his choice.
Blood for blood. Soul for soul. The figure's words were a blade, cutting through his rage. Veyne was pack, sworn to him, her loyalty forged in hunts and battles. But the shard was the Key's third piece, a fragment of the void that could end the Citadel's hunger—or unleash the Suldari's horrors.
His father's journal flashed in his mind: Your blood is the key's echo. Guard the pack, or all is lost. Duty warred with instinct, the curse a molten tide urging him to claim the shard, to become the monster he feared.
He stepped toward the tunnel, his boots grinding ash, but the figure raised its staff, the wolf's skull glowing with sickly light. The green flames flared higher, their heat a physical weight, and Veyne's scream sharpened, mingled with a guttural snarl—not hers, but something feral, twisted.
Magnus's amber eyes narrowed, his senses catching a new scent—Veyne's, but tainted, laced with the same rot as the wraith he'd slain at the gate.
"She's turned," the figure rasped, its voice a venomous hum. "The Citadel's curse claims its own. Save her, and you lose the shard. Claim the shard, and the pack pays the price."
Magnus's snarl was a storm, his claws lengthening, fur rippling across his arms. "You lie."
The figure tilted its mask, ichor dripping from its hollow socket. "The ravens see truth. Look."
A raven dove, its wings brushing Magnus's face, and his vision splintered. Images flooded his mind—Veyne, her amber eyes now black, her claws raking her own flesh as the Citadel's runes burned into her skin. She howled, not in pain but hunger, her form twisting into something neither wolf nor woman, a Suldari abomination bound to the fortress's will.
The vision shifted—Isabella, her silver eyes glowing, her pendant pulsing as she laughed, her voice a whisper: This is but the first hunt.
Magnus staggered, the vision fading, his scar searing like a brand. The shard's pulse quickened, its whispers louder, promising strength to save Veyne, to crush Isabella, to rule as the First Howl's heir. But the figure's words—The Suldari rise—held him back. Veyne's scream pierced the air again, weaker, fading, and his resolve cracked.
He lunged at the flame barrier, his sword flashing, its wolf-blood runes blazing white. The flames roared, resisting, but he slashed again, the blade's magic cutting through the Citadel's spell. The barrier shattered, green embers scattering like dying stars, and Magnus charged into the tunnel, the shard's pulse fading behind him.
The figure's laugh followed, cold and final, as the ravens swarmed after him, their caws a warning.
The tunnel was a vein of black stone, its walls slick with blood and etched with runes that pulsed faintly, their light dimming as he ran. Veyne's scent grew stronger, mingled with rot and something older, hungrier. The air thickened, the curse in his blood surging, his senses alive with every drip, every echo.
A growl—not Veyne's—rumbled ahead, and he slowed, claws flexing, sword raised.
The tunnel opened into a chamber, its floor a mosaic of bones, its ceiling a dome of twisted roots that wept black sap. Veyne knelt at the center, her armor shredded, her dark hair matted with blood. Her amber eyes were gone, replaced by black voids that wept ichor, her claws unnaturally long, her skin etched with glowing runes.
She snarled, her voice a fractured mix of wolf and something else, her gaze locked on a figure before her—a woman, cloaked in shadow, her face hidden but her scent familiar, like death and roses.
"Isabella," Magnus growled, his rage a furnace, but the woman turned, and it wasn't her.
Her face was pale, ageless, with eyes like twin moons, her lips curled in a smile that cut deeper than steel. Her cloak shimmered, revealing armor of bone and vine, and in her hand, she held a staff topped with a raven's skull, its eyes glowing red.
"Not Isabella," she purred, her voice a chorus of whispers, each word a hook in his mind. "I am Lysara, last of the Suldari's seers. The Citadel chose me to guard its heart, and your kin is my price."
Veyne lunged, her claws aimed at Magnus, her snarl inhuman. He dodged, his sword slashing, but he pulled the blow, grazing her arm instead of killing. She howled, black blood spraying, and Lysara laughed, her staff striking the ground.
The runes on Veyne's skin flared, and she convulsed, her form twisting further, limbs elongating, fur sprouting in patches.
"Fight her, Varik," Lysara said, her moon-eyes gleaming. "Or join her. The Citadel hungers for your blood."
Magnus roared, his vision red, the beast clawing free. Veyne charged, and the chamber became a storm of fang and claw, the curse's hunger drowning all else.