But the first thing that struck him was the smell—not the antiseptic tang of the healer's tent, but the heavy, metallic reek of iron and decay.
Bara opened his eyes. He was not in the camp anymore. He was in the middle of an empty wasteland with a sky the color of a bruise. The ground was not made of mud but of a mixture of ash and blood. There were thousands of bodies scattered around, with the standards of the family of D'Aragon trodden into the mud and soaked in blood.
"It's quiet," Bara whispered. His words were absorbed by the dead silence.
"There's never any noise after the finish."
"If I'm being
"Bara spun around."
Standing a few paces away was a man. He was tall, wearing the tattered remnants of his battle armor from the battle at D'Aragon. His face was Bara's face—but older. It was a face lined with the gravity of regret and a lifetime of war. A rivulet of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
Bara's eyes swept downwards. In the belly of the aged man, a horrific opening yawned—a wound inflicted by the rival Alpha that proved to be deadly.
"You. Bara stuttered, taking a step backward. "
The old Bara lurched forward, his legs shaking beneath him, and clutched the younger Bara by his shoulders. His grip was weak, shaky, but pleading.
"Hear me out," growled his older self, a bubblingmass of blood forming at his lips. "You have been given a second chance. Don't squander this opportunity on arrogance or on fear."
"I don't understand," stammered Bara. "Why am I here?"
"In order to cure the rot," whispered the older ghost venomously, leaning forward. "Avenge the House of D'Aragon. They lied to us, Bara. They lied to us."
He coughed, a harsh, wet sound, and his grip on me tightened.
"Discover your real heritage. Do what I was too weak to accomplish. Finish what I didn't complete."
A wind started gusting, howling across the battlefield. A sad, broken smile was all that the older Bara could offer—a smile that was that of a man who had lost all but hope for his past.
"Survive," he whispered
Wind rushed through him. The older Bara didn't fall, he disintegrated. His body, his armor, his blood—all turned to a crimson dust that billowed violently around Bara, obscuring his vision, choking him, burying him under the weight of his own failure.
As in reality, there was an apparent heavy silence in the room.
Bara lay on the luxurious bedding, his pale face glistening with beads of sweat. His breathing came in shallow gasps, as if he were being held hostage by the nightmare. His right hand began, unconsciously, to clutch.
His fingers slowly curled in, tighter and tighter. His nails cut into his palm, breaking the skin. He squeezed until the tendons in his fists resembled wires and until the blood began to seep from his closed fists, dyeing the immaculate white sheets with a blossoming crimson flower.
Outside the thick oak door, an eerie quiet was shattered by stern footsteps.
"Lady Seraphina,
Lilian's voice was high-pitched and full of fright. She was standing in front of the door, her small body obstructing the way in defiance.
He is still unconscious, My Lady! The healers told him he needed complete silence. You cannot—
"Move, Lil
The voice was icy, melodious, and left no room for debate. Seraphina D'Aragon was a commanding figure, with silver hair spilling down her back like a river of moonlight. She was attired in a training tunic, but her bearing was more imposing than anything she could wear for defense.
"I am his sister," Seraphina said, her eyes narrowing. "And I hear he caused a scene at the camp. I will see him. Now," she added.
"But My Lady—"
Seraphina did not wait. She did not push Lilian, but she moved forward as if she were unstoppable, and Lilian was forced to jump out of the way or be pushed back by Seraphina's impetus. Seraphina pushed the door open by its handle.
"Bara, stop pretending to be—"
The words died in her throat.
There was a hint of metal tang in the air. Seraphina's eyes automatically went to the bed. She saw her brother – white as a corpse, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead from fever. But she noticed the hand.
His fist was clenched so tightly that it was like a rock, with blood collecting rapidly on the sheets, dripping off the edge of the mattress.
'Young Master!' Lilian screamed, barging through Seraphina
The maid hurried towards the bed, wringing her hands in distress. "Oh gods, he's bleeding! Why is he clutching it that way? Master Bara, release it! Please!"
Lilian desperately attempted to loosen his fingers,using a towel to stanch the blood flow.
Seraphina was frozen in the doorway. The annoyance that had been etched on her face wavered. For a fleeting moment, the mask of the 'Perfect Queen' slipped. Her eyes softened, and a whirlpool of confusion and pain flashed in the jade greens. She took a halting step forward, her twitching hand as if to reach out.
He looks so puny, she thought to herself. Like when we were kids.
But as Lilian successfully loosened Bara's hand and wrapped the towel around it, the moment ebbed. Seraphina straightened her back. All softness disappeared, and in an instant, her mask of ice was back in place.
"Clean that up," Seraphina bade, her voice expressionless. "And tell me when he wakens."
She spun on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving the door open.
Miles away, the mood changed.
The sun was beginning to set, coloring the horizon with smudges of purple and blood orange. The main gates of the D'Aragon Palace were manned by a pair of guards, battle-hardened men who had fought a dozen skirmishes. They stiffened, their spears grasped tightly enough to turn their knuckles white.
The air thickened, becoming harder to breathe, as if the force of gravity had intensified.
There was a mounted procession approaching the gate. Leading the procession was a huge black stallion, its coat wet with sweat. However, the rider atop the stallion was much more frightening.
The Lycan King had returned.
He did not look like a man returning home to his loved ones; rather, he looked like a disaster waiting to happen, as if he had taken on the form of a man. His black, royal attire was saturated with blood—not a drop of which was his. The blood streaked down his cloak, leaving a trail on the cobblestones as he walked. His hair was disheveled, and his face was a mask of rage.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He was emitting a living, breathing aura of murder that was radiating off of him in waves.
As he entered through the archway, they not only saluted, they flinched, instinctively dropping their eyes, afraid to encounter the gaze of this predator that dwelled among them.
The King fixed his stare on the palace keep before him, his golden eyes blazing furiously with a passion for destruction. The war was far from being won. It seemed that this was only the beginning.