Fen flashed his fangs in a grin from the peak of his mountains, as he observed the chaos unfolding in Azael's territory, the weather shift extending into his own.
One of his lycans had returned with news: soldiers that were advancing into Azael's domain.
Lumere soldiers had guts and he would use their numbers to produce more of his new hybrids.
From the chaos of fire and smoke, causing the clouds to darken and spread through the sky, Fen knew it was time.
A perfect time—not perfect enough to defeat Azael, but Fen would gladly take that risk.
He howled into the sky as wolves poured from the volcano, charging into the forest, fangs bared, set to wound and bring to him every human they came across on the forest floor.
Fen stayed back, as Eira had instructed, anticipating Elana's visit.
**
"Silly human! Your pride matches mine perfectly.
Too perfectly that you could not kneel to my dominance while a mortal was present."
The demon's mocking voice echoed in Azael as his knee buckled under his restraint, his groanings strained as his breath came ragged and harsh.
He almost had the sorcerer—almost—desperate because he could not again be controlled by anyone.
After the army sorcerer—after keeping his weakness close so no one else would use it.
Not after all this time—after hiding for so long—
Azael crawled, dragging his body to the incense room. Cold sweat beaded out on his skin, nothing matching the inferno inside him.
"She's too innocent for you," his demon whispered. "But that's for you. I WANT HER!"
Azael gasped as the hunger for blood surged—the sweet taste of human blood.
"Unleash me! It's a battlefield. A perfect time to fuel our strength. Dominate these measly mortals." his demon insisted. Its maniacal laughter followed.
Azael lay on his back, trembling as he pulled the robe from his aching body. His muscles constricted with his voice.
He would hold back. He had to.
His territory would be destroyed if he lost control, the consequences of war spreading even to Lumere itself.
**
King Victor struggled to support his body even as the few loyal soldiers with him did.
The smell of gunpowder tainted the air mixing with the chill of the darkening weather.
The rest of the cannons were abandoned; the fear of their self-explosion, probably triggered by the Ancient, kept them away.
He'd told his commanders that the remaining soldiers should retreat, believing it would do more harm than good to challenge the Ancient's wrath further.
Syrus had been utterly wrong, and Victor would see to it that his motives were questioned for not fully explaining the severity of what they were going up against if he wasn't dead yet.
But he had—Victor forgot he had been led by the blind motivation to save Cara.
But the Ancient had no reason to lie about not having Cara with him.
With such power, he could have easily tormented Victor with that knowledge, but instead, he had given him a chance to retreat from the battlefield.
That mercy was no kindness—it was a warning.
Victor watched as his remaining soldiers ran up ahead, some still behind him hurrying to get as far away from the castle as quickly as possible.
The air was thick with their fear; Victor felt it. The Ancient's unpredictable power—even after mercy—how he'd incinerated two more legions. No one knew who was next.
The further they got away, the better.
Fire burned endlessly, almost unnaturally, with its smoke tickling the clouds to tears. Victor hoped they would make it out of the forest before dark.
From now on, he would do everything to be a responsible king, fair even to commoners and nobles alike.
Death respected no man, and this battle had taught him that.
"Aaaaargh," a man's scream shredded the chaos, coming from ahead.
"What is…" one of the commanders supporting him murmured but before Victor could look up.
The commander holding him spun him behind an oak tree as snarling and gunfire erupted through the forest.
Victor's heartbeat surged, what now? Was this also the Ancient's doing? Did he really have mercy, or was he taking the pleasure in hunting them down as game for sport?
"Give me a gun," Victor rasped. He would not die a defenseless king.
"My king, let me…" the commander began.
"Give me a gun!" Victor repeated sternly. Just as the commander placed a gun into Victor's trembling and injured hands, he gasped.
Victor's eyes dropped to the commander's chest where three bold claws now pierced through, blood dripping down his mouth as his eyes went white.
The man-sized wolf loomed from his back—they were real.
The one thing Syrus had been right about, the one leverage they had used, had now become their nightmare.
Victor had no choice but to ignore the pain in his body and run amidst the sudden horror of wolves feeding on and killing his soldiers.
He slid to the other side of the tree before the wolf could notice him, falling to crawl on his belly as he clutched his injured shoulder and dragged his fractured leg from the bodies that had fallen one onto another, observing that guns didn't do much against these things either.
Fire spread behind him and another cannon caught on fire.
Victor could have sworn he heard the earth crack beneath him.
But he kept going, his arms getting weaker as he crawled, inhaling the now almost venomous dust beneath him amidst the chaos of his soldiers running, stuck between the wolves and the fire.
"My king!" A fierce whisper that shook Victor came from a little further from where he lay, playing dead as wolves lurked ahead, distracted with their massacre.
It was a soldier hidden in a thicket, not distinguishable from the shadows cast by the forest—at least not yet—but good enough to hide.
Victor had to get there, which meant risking the attention of the wolves. Perhaps he should just die here and let the soldier hide and save himself.
"Now my king!" the whisper from the thicket came louder this time, nearly an audible voice.
Strength charged into Victor suddenly as he crawled aggressively, not minding the scene behind him, before half his body pushed into the thicket, hands grabbing the rest of him inside as he rasped from the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
At least four to five men were hidden there.
Victor quickly sat up with a silent groan; the space couldn't take his form lying down.
The sky roared, the sound of the patter of rain first before Victor and the soldiers felt it on their skin.
Relief for the fear of fire barely registered amid the stench of rotting wolf flesh.
The thicket was the only place they could stay for now in hopes of surviving the commotion.
**
Caesar smirked as he finally spotted the local bar he had trailed Theo to the last time he visited Sirence.
Even from outside, the smell of tobacco and booze was already strong, like a pull into the room.
He entered, pushing the strands of curtain aside as he locked the door behind him.
Warm lights of the tavern washed over rugged men in rumpled, haggard clothes sitting at medium-quality tables—proof that the kingdom's riches did not touch this place.
Caesar walked with confidence in their midst as wandering eyes followed his movements.
He got to the counter where a bartender stood—not a bad-looking man, just rugged, with light brown hair and amber eyes to match.
"Hi," Caesar greeted as he sat on one of the chairs.
"Refugee?" the bartender asked as he cleaned a tumbler, ready to take Caesar's order.
"The name's Caesar," he said with a smirk, earning a scoff.
"The worst country to hide out in is Sirence," the bartender began. "What do I bring you?"
"Looks like an unbearable type of heaven to me," Caesar said slyly. "Vodka and Madeira. Ice."
"Heaven my foot. It's a cage to its people—no growth, no democracy. Nothing, just pointless, endless monarchy." the bartender said as he shook the ice bin, bitterness rattling in the sound.
Caesar saw the opportunity.
He scoffed, feigning indifference. "Then you and your resistance must not have a plan good enough to escape Sirence's rulers. Isn't it better you're under them—content and safe?"
The bartender slid the drink toward him, jaw tight. "You want me to reveal an escape route out of Sirence."
"I'm also an unwilling lodger," Caesar scoffed, taking a swig. "I had high hopes coming here, I thought you lot were hungry enough for fairness—tired of being ruled by constant monarchs."
The bartender sighed, polishing the counter absently as his gaze dropped. "We only began marking several routes because the resistance was small compared to the loyalists. At the moment we are considering migration."
Caesar smiled—closer to the information he needed.
Theo couldn't take all the glory for himself after all the point of this was for Eira to see him—not through the eyes of another man.
"I also want the justice you seek," Caesar said. "A spy sent to observe. One who returns with a message to a ruler who cares about resistance rights and can wrest Sirence from its monarchs."
The bartender raised his eyes, hope brightening. "Then other kingdoms are noticing and coming to our aid. Finally, this endless regime might end."
"Yes," Caesar said, "but it depends on the best route—one the Kings won't suspect."
The bartender nodded. "I'll help you. Humble spy. So you can bring—aid to the ignorance of Sirence."
Caesar smirked. Theo wouldn't know what hit him.
He just needed the map—the directions Eira gave Theo.
A glimpse was enough.