Chapter 84: Hour Of Reckoning
Meanwhile, across the plains far from the king’s cruel court, the battle for the northern ridge raged.
Kieran stood amid the chaos, panting, sword slick with blood, fur matted and torn from multiple fights. His golden eyes burned like a living fire. Around him, wolves circled defensively, holding the broken road leading into the heart of the kingdom.
"They’re pushing from the north harder than before," one of his generals, Tobias, growled, shaking blood from his claws.
Kieran’s jaw clenched. "They’ve shifted tactics. That means someone’s giving orders."
He looked toward the broken spires of the capital, grim understanding blooming behind his burning gaze.
It was the king. He was close.
Thunder rolled across the sky, the storm a herald of something worse yet to come.
And far beneath that storm, Marcus remained bound, breathing shallowly, waiting—for rescue, for hope, for war.
The storm had broken fully now, black clouds boiling above the ruined capital, the kind of rain that felt more like ash than water, clinging to skin, heavy with the scent of decay and burning.
And the king stood in the heart of it all, utterly calm.
The ruins of the city stretched around him like broken bones, the skeletal remains of a once-beautiful place—now nothing but a battlefield, a grave for dreams long dead. He stood on the remnants of an ancient balcony, high above the broken streets, the view stretching far enough to see distant fires flickering on the horizon. The occasional scream or howl echoed through the ruined avenues, carried on the cutting wind.