It was dawn—the hour when the earth's slumber thinned. Draven entered his castle, and the pillars of the Great Halls seemed to bow to their king. He moved like the wind—silent, measured—years of discipline honed to its finest edge. The Halls were empty, by his command.
He did not show it, but for the last century, he had grown weary of the beasts. They were vile creatures who soiled the lands, took what they wanted, and destroyed the rest. He never wanted them close.
There was also the matter of trust.
He trusted no one.
Well—except for one.
And now that one crawled again through the shadows.
Draven slowed, mildly annoyed at the invasion of his solitude. His voice was calm, yet sharp as a drawn blade.
"Vax. I know you're there."
From the dark seam between the pillars, a figure bled out of the shadows. He was tall and lean, his skin so pale it could humble the moon. His black robes fluttered faintly, whispering as though alive. His boots made no sound; even the wind seemed to part for him.
"My lord," he bowed, voice a velvet rasp, "ever so alertful."
Draven sighed and walked on.
This was Vax Morran, the only one of his kind—a creation birthed not by nature, but by cruelty. His father's experiments had made him immortal, cursed with bloodlust and beauty. The world named him the Blood Whim, and even the shadows whispered it with reverence.
He followed behind Draven, mimicking his stride so perfectly that even silence envied him. Draven despised this about him, but said nothing. His mind was adrift—still haunted by Elyndra, and the night that refused to leave his thoughts.
"You are rather in a good mood, my lord," Vax lingered. His smile was cold, curved like a knife.
"What do you want?" Draven's tone hardened. When Vax lingered, he always wanted something.
"I smell an elf," Vax said softly. "Her blood is rare."
The room grew colder. The air turned to frost.
Draven stopped. He turned, slowly. His eyes burned crimson; claws slid from his fingers. The curtains shuddered as if afraid, and the hall itself trembled like the heart of an earthquake.
Vax fell to his knees, face pressed to the marble.
"You will never speak in that manner again," Draven growled. The sound was thunder through a graveyard.
"Forgive me, my lord," Vax murmured, still bowed.
He did not raise his head until Draven's footsteps retreated. Then he rose and followed, wordless as shadow.
In the throne hall, Draven ascended the dais and slumped into the iron seat—the weight of the realm pressing upon his shoulders. He sat wide, his posture regal, unyielding—the posture of a monarch carved from night.
Vax stepped forward. "News from the East, my lord."
That piqued Draven's interest. But before Vax could speak again, the doors groaned open and the rulers of the five clans entered his hall.
The Ogre Lord, Gorath Maulbane—the Mountain that Devoured—was first. His footsteps shook the ground. His cleaver, broad as a man's chest, hung across his back. A cloak of werewolf fur draped his shoulders—the skin of an enemy slain in battle. His face bore a hundred scars, and his eyes burned with the fury of his bloodline—heir to Rath Maulbane, the breaker of cities.
To his left came Skarn Viletooth, Lord of Goblins, called the Iron Wrench. Two centuries of rule had sharpened him to cunning steel. His armor was patched with bones, his ears hung heavy with gold and bloodstained rings.
Behind them strode Rhaegor Strypesoul, the Crimson Fang—chieftain of the Weretigers. His amber eyes glowed beneath his mane, and the scent of the western jungles of Lyrenfell clung to his cloak.
Last came Kael'Ryn the Golden—the Sun's Fury—lord of the Werelions, radiant and terrible. His armor was forged from dragon scales, trophies from the beast he had slain as a boy. His kind were born of cross-blood between realms after the Blood Wars, and they had risen swiftly to power.
It had been a thousand Eclipsera since Draven united the five clans under one banner. He had made the ruins of Ardane their home, scattering the lords across the lands while he remained in the black towers of Tartarus, watching over what he had built. But silence had turned restless. He felt the pulse of war stirring again.
"Hail, O great one," Gorath Maulbane thundered, bowing. The bracelets of human skulls on his wrists clattered like chimes of death.
Draven regarded them coldly. "To what do I owe this intrusion?"
"Humans rebel in the East," Skarn Viletooth spat. "My son was slain and burned alive—killed without honor of a fair battle."
Vax chuckled softly. "Fight fair? You call wielding cleavers that fell oak trees with one swing fair?"
"Silence, half-breed!" Skarn roared.
Vax stepped closer, his smile widening. "I dare you to say it again."
"Vax—enough," Draven's voice cracked through the hall like thunder.
He turned to the assembled lords. "You move like a swarm of fifty warriors. An enclave is nothing to such strength."
"These were no enclaves," Rhaegor Strypesoul snapped. "These were humans and elves—trained in the arts of the old. They have a leader."
"They call this child the Beast Slayer," Kael'Ryn said, his tone laced with disdain—as if the failure were Draven's own.
Draven leaned forward. "Do you cower before a lesser being, Lord Kael'Ryn?"
"I fear no man, my lord," Kael'Ryn replied, voice steady but his eyes lowered. He would not awaken the Wolf King's wrath.
Draven reclined again. His gaze burned through them all.
"My lord," Rhaegor pressed, stepping closer. "These rebels hide in an oasis deep within the Elven lands. Let us crush them."
"The war is over, Lord Rhaegor. Go home," Draven said, waving them off.
"Our kin are slaughtered in the elven realms," Rhaegor growled. "Dungeons are being emptied by this Beast Slayer. They say he carries the blood of the old."
"They have no armies," Draven said. "They are a broken people clinging to the bones of their pride."
"They are amassing one, my lord," Kael'Ryn countered. "Elves, mages, and men—bound under one banner."
Draven's eyes narrowed. "What?"
He recognized that look in their faces—fear disguised as anger.
"My lord," Gorath Maulbane rumbled, "the legends speak of a hybrid child… one born to tame dragons."
Draven began to laugh—slowly, darkly. The sound filled the hall like rolling thunder. His shoulders shook.
"Hybrid child," he said at last, mockery in his tone. "Lord Gorath, it seems the curse of mortality dulls your wits. Shall I remind you how your forefather, Rath Maulbane, conquered Lyrenfell, the land of warriors? And yet you tremble before a bedtime story?"
He rose, and the torches dimmed.
"Let the mages whisper their prayers. Let them beg their gods to send a savior. I have waited centuries for one worthy of my wrath."
He looked toward the great windows where dawn was breaking—the first sunlight in an age.
"And if this Beast Slayer truly walks the earth," Draven murmured, voice low and dangerous,
"then let him come. The world will bleed again."
He said that, yet secretly he envied a peace he could never possess. He felt it—in the marrow of the shadows—something was stirring. Something bold enough to challenge him.
Yet when his thoughts strayed back to the stream—the warmth he had felt beside it, the moonlight strewn like broken glass across the grass beneath the old oak—he wondered if it was wicked to soak such beauty again in blood and ash.
"Go, my lords," he said, voice firm as iron. "Double your numbers. Fortify your dungeons. Let them remember who took these lands from them—and who slew their kin."
The company bowed and departed, the echoes of their heavy steps fading into the far chambers until only silence remained. Draven slumped back into his throne, the great iron seat groaning under the weight of an immortal's weariness.
Vax lingered at the edge of the light—hovering like a memory that refused to fade.
Once again, Draven was reminded of intrusion.
"What do you know of this Beast Slayer?" he asked.
Vax stepped forward, ever eager when the king indulged him. "An elf, your grace. My children whisper that he is formidable."
Draven grunted. "An elf leading men? How far humanity has fallen."
"Perhaps they have learned," Vax replied, voice low and sinuous, "that it is wiser to fight with all the aid they can find. Had they fought as one long ago…"
He trailed off when Draven's finger tapped once against the arm of his throne—a sound sharper than any rebuke.
"His company moves by night," Vax continued quickly. "A tactician of rare instinct. He avoids the wyverns by day, then strikes the auction markets at dusk—freeing slaves, cutting supply lines. He bleeds us slowly."
"What is he called?"
"They name him Beast Slayer, my lord."
Draven rose, pacing the dais. Pale sunlight spilled across his armor, turning black steel to dull crimson. He paused, eyes distant.
"Perhaps this oasis they speak of is real."
"Of course, my lord," Vax said, smiling faintly. "The beasts may be savage, but they do not lie—not about this."
Draven turned, eyes burning like coals. "Get me more. Every whisper. Every trail of blood he leaves behind. And find me the truth of this hybrid child."
Vax's grin widened—sharp and knowing. "As you command, your grace."
He bowed once, then his form trembled, shuddered—and burst.
A thousand bats exploded from where he had stood, shrieking through the vaulted chamber, wings clawing at the last shreds of night. They fled through the dark corners of the hall, scattering before the invading light.
Draven watched until the final echo died. The morning had come—but its light brought no peace.
He sat again upon his throne, and though dawn stretched across his realm, his heart remained bound to shadow.
For deep within him, he could feel it—
The world was turning toward war.
And for the first time in centuries, he feared he might not stand apart from it.