Voralth's eyes locked on the narrow window. His head tilted slightly, a cruel grin curling across his face.
Miral's blood ran cold. "Go—now!" she urged, shoving her children toward the back door. They stumbled into the night air, bare feet slapping against the dirt path, breath already hitching with panic.
Behind them, the heavy thud of something leaping from the square hit the ground, followed by the rapid pound of clawed feet.
They ran.
The screams from the village blended with the thunder of pursuit. Miral didn't dare look back—she could feel the presence gaining on them, the earth trembling under its steps. She pulled the children toward the narrow gap between two storage sheds, their bodies scraping against the rough wood as they squeezed through.
A guttural snarl erupted just behind them. Something massive slammed into the side of one shed, splintering the planks. Dust and shards of wood rained down.
"Don't stop!" Miral cried, dragging them toward the tree line beyond the last row of houses. The flicker of torchlight faded behind them, replaced by the shadows of the forest ahead.
They were almost there when a black-furred shape dropped from the rooftops in front of them, landing in a crouch with claws digging into the earth. Its glowing eyes fixed on them, lips peeling back to reveal rows of jagged teeth.
The black werewolf straightened slowly, towering over them, blocking their escape.
From somewhere in the darkness, Voralth's voice rolled through the air, smooth and mocking.
"Bring them here."
The black werewolf obeyed without hesitation, lifting Miral by the neck as her legs kicked helplessly. The boys—Zareth and Kaelen—were seized by hulking minotaurs, their grips like iron, and dragged back toward the town square.
The square was a nightmare. Every villager—dead or alive—had been herded there. The dead were piled atop one another in grotesque heaps, their blood spilling down the cobblestones like a crimson river that snaked toward Voralth's glowing sigil. The air stank of iron and smoke, heavy with the screams of the living.
The minotaurs worked without mercy. Every few minutes, they would step into the crowd, pull a trembling villager out, and cut them down in full view of the others. The slaughter was methodical, almost ritualistic, each death feeding the ever-hungry symbol on the ground.
"No! Not my son—take me instead!" Miral cried, desperation cracking her voice. She ripped Zareth free from the minotaur's grip, clutching him tight.
She looked into her eldest son's eyes, her face streaked with dirt and tears. "Take care of your brother," she whispered.
Before Zareth could speak, a minotaur wrenched her away. Without pause or hesitation, the brute swung its massive axe. Miral's body fell in two pieces, her face still frozen in a small, peaceful smile.
Zareth's blood turned to ice. His breath caught, and the world around him seemed to go silent for a heartbeat—until it all came crashing back in the form of his mother's blood pooling at his feet.
He barely had time to process her death before the black werewolf snatched Kaelen. The beast lifted the boy high, claws spread wide, ready to take his head in one brutal motion.
And then—
A crushing pressure fell over the town.
It was like the air itself had turned to stone, pressing down on every soul present. The werewolf froze mid-swing, its claws trembling against the invisible weight. Even the minotaurs paused, turning their heads toward the sky.
"Tsk…" Voralth's lip curled in irritation. He knew this presence.
Reinforcements had arrived.
His eyes lifted to the heavens where a lone figure floated high above the square—a man, backlit by the moon, the wind whipping his cloak like a banner.
Voralth's eyes narrowed. The figure in the sky began to descend, and with each heartbeat the suffocating pressure in the air grew heavier. The black werewolf still gripped Kaelen, but even its feral snarl faltered under the weight of the newcomer's presence.
"Full retreat!" Voralth barked, his voice booming across the square.
Chaos erupted. The minotaurs, who had moments ago butchered villagers without pause, now roared in panic as reinforcements surged into the square. Swords flashed, magic tore through the air, and orcs fell in heaps as if their bodies were made of paper. In the space of moments, the disciplined slaughter turned into a desperate rout.
Voralth moved with precision, carving through the fray toward the center of his blood sigil. The werewolves disengaged from their prey, bounding to his side. The black werewolf carried Kaelen like a trophy, the boy thrashing and kicking to no avail.
A swirling rift of dark energy opened behind Voralth, its edges jagged and shifting like a wound torn in the world itself. The stench of sulfur and burning ash rolled out from the portal.
One by one, the werewolves leapt into the vortex, vanishing into its darkness. The black werewolf was the last to step through, clutching Kaelen tightly, the boy's terrified eyes locking with Zareth's across the square.
And then they were gone.
The portal snapped shut with a deafening crack, leaving only silence, blood, and the lingering shimmer of demonic energy.