The Hound's footsteps faded into the shadows, leaving the chamber heavy with silence.
Lady Eryndor sat alone on her throne, silver hair shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her gaze wandered to the great mural behind her — a scene of fire and blood. Her, in her prime, scattering legions beneath her hand. The clan's banner raised high, its sigil burning with power.
Her fingers curled against the stone armrest, nails digging in.
"Eryndor…" she whispered. "A name once feared across realms. Now… a whisper on dying lips."
She rose, her long robes trailing across the floor as she approached the mural. Her hand brushed the painted steel of her younger self's blade. For a moment, her voice cracked.
"I was a storm. I was power incarnate. And yet…" Her eyes darkened. "…power fades. Blood thins. The line weakens."
Her reflection in the mural's polished surface seemed to sneer back at her — the face of a woman who once ruled through chaos, now reduced to scheming in shadows.
She turned sharply, voice rising with renewed fire.
"But not yet. Not while I breathe. If my blood cannot bear heirs worthy of the name, then I will forge them. Even if they are not born of me… they will become Eryndor."
The torches flickered violently, as if her words bent the flame itself.
Her lips curved into a sharp smile.
"Yes… those boys. They are not children. They are wolves dressed as lambs. Survivors. Killers. The kind the world itself spits out — but I will claim them. And through them… Eryndor will rise again."
Her laughter, low and sharp, echoed through the empty hall like a blade sliding free of its sheath.