Aziz
Aziz crouched on a thick baobab branch. The moonlight dripped off his shoulders as he watched the narrow path snake through the clearing below, a line of stillness waiting to break.
Word reached them that the royal family's guards were moving through the area.
Aziz looked to the next tree and saw his mother crouched in the branches, moonlight catching her eyes.
She was Shujaa—a true child of the moon.
Her white dreadlocks spilled over the battered eyepatch, the wolf-head cloak snarling on her shoulder.
They were a tribe of humans who never needed the Arcane—raw strength and instinct made them legends. Shujaa warriors could hurl boulders hard enough to knock trains off their tracks, their senses honed past anything ordinary.
She cut her gaze his way, one eye catching a sliver of moonlight through the leaves. "Do you sense them now, my cub?" she murmured, her voice a soft balm wrapped around a steel edge.
He pressed his index finger over his middle finger.
A low hum rippled through his chest as he sank into the magnetic field around him. The world shifted—trees, stones, the ground itself turning into faint outlines he felt rather than saw, every metal thread in the region tugging at his senses.
Shapes moved in that unseen map.
A small formation. Heavy armor. Steady, disciplined steps.
The Royal Guard.
Their dusk-colored plates brushed together with muted chimes, like bells smothered in cloth.
The field faded as he released the gesture, leaving his fingertips tingling and his breath tight.
"They're here," he said. "A small group."
A flicker of pride broke through her stoic mask before she concealed it behind the old wolf-bone plate, scarred across brow and cheek, mirroring the hidden story of her unspoken eye.
Her hand found his arm, warm and reassuring. "Good job," she said, her voice steady.
"I'm proud of you."
She tugged the mask low, and when she spoke again, the jungle itself held its breath. Her voice sliced through the branches like a blade, commanding the hidden Shujaa below.
She exhaled slowly and dangerous. "The instant blood spills… we end them."
The forest answered first—a rumble, a dragging scrape.
Then the carriage emerged, lacquered in black and red, hauled by two of the horned beasts, their antlers glowing like fresh wounds.
His mother dropped like a hammer, crashing down with such force that the dirt billowed up around her.
He was surprised by the sheer power of her descent, and the Seers seemed to freeze in place. Even the Seers, sensing the shift in the air, fell silent in awe.
From the carriage stepped their leader—a red-haired elf, followed by a handful of his kin, each one moving with quiet confidence.
His hand rested near his sword as his gaze locked onto her, cold and intent.
"I've been searching for you," he said, his voice roughened by travel and hate.
"At last, the she-wolf shows herself."
His mother bowed her head—and let the blade drop. It hit the ground with a deep thrum, the chains still coiled in her grip.
Forged of arcane stone, its curved edge shimmered with violet veins, glowing faintly beneath the surface.
She slowly closed her hand around the chain. The chain tightened—her blade snapped to life.
She spun it once, then let it fly. It lodged deep in the young man's shoulder. With a brutal yank, she hauled him into her grasp and instantly ripped out his throat.
The others froze as collective roars came from above, echoing through the forest canopy. "Ambush!" someone yelled, but it was already too late. More Shujaa fell from the trees—some launched down like projectiles, while others were already climbing down the trunks with their wicked claws.
They struck the guards like jungle cats, dark blades in their fists, edges blackened and carved with glowing sigils, each pulse of light a promise of blood.
Above them, Aziz arcane energy was pulsing hot in his veins, eager to be unleashed.
With a sudden leap, he landed, displacing the air around him. The guards snapped their heads in his direction, and he felt the weight of their gaze settle on him.
Another elf froze, eyes locked on the markings coiled up his arms and throat—gold lines inked into his skin like a living tattoo.
One found his voice, blade rattling in his grip: "Arcana-Scourge," he shouted. Another sneered, "I see it. Kill him."
He tilted his head, finger raised casual, like flicking away a thought.
Power surged down his arm searing, hollow, hungry.
He swiped his hand in a horizontal, effortless motion.
A silent, invisible force ripped through the air where his hand passed.
The guard charging him jerked mid-step, then split down the center, armor and flesh cleaved perfectly apart.
His two halves collapsed to the ground, scattering like dropped cloth.
An elf screamed, "Formation—!"
He never finished.
Aziz cleaved through the first one, already turning.
Another lunged; Aziz caught him by the throat and hurled him into the elf who'd called the order, the two bodies smashing together with a crack of armor.
He punched the air.
A compressed blast of wind detonated forward—a clean hole ripped straight through both elves, bodies folding in on themselves as they dropped.
Beside him, the runeclaws wailed runes flickering in panic as the beasts jerked against their restraints, desperate to flee.
Aziz spared them a single glance.
Subjugated runeclaws.
Great .
He raised both hands and flicked his wrist.
The forest answered.
Wooden spikes erupted from the trees, spearing through armor and bone, pinning elf and beast alike in a single, vicious sweep.
Silence followed—broken only by the groan of dying wood and the hiss of settling blood.
Movement—shapes lurching through smoke and firelight, broken silhouettes fleeing into the trees.
"Retreat! Retreat!" one shouted, voice cracking.
They ran, stumbling over roots, tripping through underbrush, too panicked to watch their steps.
He raised both hands. The shadows of the trees, the carts, every rock and broken wheel crept closer, tugged by the pulse of his will.
They wanted to move. He felt it—like tension in a bowstring. He pulled with his will—harder, deeper.
But the darkness only rippled, thin as breath on glass, then faded back into stillness.
"Az."
His mother's voice cut through him like a blade. The shadows snapped free, melting back into the trees and earth. He turned.
She stood among her rebels, calm as a stone idol, giving him just the smallest shake of her head.
He moved to her side as their rebels cracked open crates, locks snapping like twigs. "Why did you stop me, Mother? I could've caught them."
She didn't answer right away, watching the freed prisoners stumble into their ranks. Then, quiet, her answer: "A corpse carries no fear. A survivor carries it for miles."
He understood. Fear was worth more than blood tonight. Her hand tightened on his shoulder.
"Stay sharp, cub," she said. "You're my finest edge. We cut the rot, one slice at a time."
He bowed his head as she gently cradled it, pressing her forehead against his.
A rebel near the crates punched the air: "Victory!" The others roared back, a ragged choir rattling the broken stones.
She lifted the chained blade, her voice rolling over theirs in raw Shujaa, a language older than kingdoms, older than Arcane itself.
Her people. Her blood. The jungle's breath given shape.
He stood in the hush she left behind, a flicker of pride blooming in his chest.
Her son.
Then wings folded back like ink on silk. The raven settled on a crate, its body as thick as a man's forearm, feathers midnight-black, eyes glinting with secrets.
The camp tensed. A few blades slid half-free.
His mother raised her hand; silence fell like a blade. She didn't look away from the bird. "For you," she said softly.
He stepped closer, the raven's ancient eyes fixed on him. Its talons bit gently into his leather bracer. The scroll lashed to its leg caught his eye, glowing faintly in the firelight.
He worked the knot free, his throat tight. One word from him, and the raven vanished into the canopy, eaten by the night.
As his gaze passed over the ink, something in him answered. A pulse. A tug. His vision tightened, and a faint glow bled into the edges of his sight.
The paper reacted—words he hadn't noticed before shimmered up from the fibers, rising like embers caught in breath.
Your father has been captured. He is awaiting execution. Your aid is requested at once.
He exhaled slowly, the glow in his eyes reflecting off the shifting ink.
The world faded away, leaving only the parchment crumpled in his fist.
His father, the The Wa Bringer , was the one who taught him everything—from mending a simple paper cut with steady hands to wielding the Arcane itself, a power only nobles and the royal line were ever meant to touch.
Beside him, his mother's hand found his shoulder, grounding him in the here and now, in the war that still needed him.
Enoch appeared behind her, his half-masked face calm as mountain stone.
"All well, my lady?"
He didn't answer at first. The letter was still in his hand, the ink pulsing faintly.
When he finally looked up, his voice came low, tight. "The royals took my father.
They're planning to execute him… and they're calling for me."
He caught the look in her eyes beneath the mask—sorrow, thin but unmistakable. "Mother…" he said quietly.
She stepped closer. "You're not going to let that happen, are you?"
"No," he answered, his breath unsteady. "But you need me here."
She shook her head. "You can't stand in two places at once. Go where you are most needed. And right now, that isn't here."
His throat tightened. "My father…"
"—needs you more," she finished for him.
"But understand this: if he dies, the royals won't be the only ones to bleed."
Enoch folded his arms behind her, his voice deep as stone. "A war will start," he said. "One that could shake this world to its core."
The young man let his head fall, a sigh slipping out before he could stop it. "Alright," he murmured. "I'll go. I'll save him.
But promise me—if you see one of those elf bastards, you won't engage."
She gave a low chuckle behind the mask. "I can't promise you that."
"Mother…" He lifted his eyes to her.
She softened—just a fraction. "Fine. I promise this: if it's a fight I can't win, I'll fall back."
"Okay," he said. "I can work with that."
She pulled him into a firm embrace, the kind meant to steady bones and hearts alike.
"Be on guard at all times. Don't trust anyone. And remember—once you leave this forest, the world out there is far more dangerous than you think."
Enoch nodded beside her, silent but solemn. And for the first time, the weight of the journey ahead truly settled on his shoulders.
She turned from him sharply, her cloak snapping like a banner. Then her voice rose—deep, commanding—barking out words in the native Shujan tongue.
The sounds rolled through the trees, sharp consonants and vibrating vowels carrying the weight of something ancient.
Heads lifted. Every wolfborn in the clearing froze, listening.
He didn't need a translation; the tone alone told him she was calling them to witness.
One by one, their voices answered hers—low at first, then building into a unified roar that shook leaves from the branches.
She raised her hand toward him. "Our little wolf goes to prevent a great war," she declared in Shujan, her voice ringing like steel against stone.
"Pray for his safety. Pray he braves the road ahead. Pray he returns as strong as the day he left."
The pack roared again—louder, fierce, a thunderous wall of devotion.
They approached him in a line, each one touching his shoulder, murmuring blessings in their tongue.
Someone pressed something wrapped in cloth into his hand—a rigid, arcane-forged dagger with a jagged blade that shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
Another warrior stepped forward and placed a wolf-shaped mask against his palms, the sleek bone-like design covering from the nose down, its snout carved with protective runes.
"For breath. For courage," he said in Shujan.
Their hands, their gifts, their voices—everything poured into him at once. For the first time, he felt what it meant to be their little wolf… and what it meant to leave them.