It was hard to believe things had unfolded this way—being granted an audience with the king without any interrogation, no probing of motives. It felt like an impossible breach, yet Darken knew all too well that it was no mere accident.
What he'd done before the Rampaging Wolf was no small feat. The strength he'd shown, that composure in the face of a berserk beast, was what made Larveo drop his guard and personally lead them to King Kazler.
Now the path was clear.
Inside, the fortress was no better than its exterior. Collapsed stones, cracked walls, the stench of dust and death lingering in the air. The wolves—still bearing wolfish traits but walking upright—hovered hesitantly behind ruined pillars. Their eyes darted, wary; they avoided confrontation, then slipped away into the shadows.
Darken caught glimpses of faces, but each time, they melted back into silence, as though repelled by his presence. There was no hostility—only a desperate urge to withdraw. It contradicted everything he'd heard of the Savage Wolves. What he saw were not fierce creatures but frightened phantoms.
Behind him, Laro, Adinis, and Toril marched in steady silence. Ariki and Madley remained at the gate. Larveo guided them through twisting corridors toward the den carved into the mountain— the very structure Darken had spotted from the cliff above. More than a royal hall, it was an ancient monument burdened by centuries of history.
When they drew near, Darken broke the hush: "I heard Savage Wolves don't welcome humans—or any outsiders. Yet here you are, bringing me to your king. And still, your people cower, as if stripped of their identity, afraid of death itself. Why?"
He stepped level with Larveo and met his gaze. No answer came. Larveo kept walking as though the question had never been asked—not out of disregard, but deliberate silence.
Darken nearly withdrew his question when Larveo finally spoke in a steady voice: "What you know... is true. But you saw the reason yourself, moments ago."
Darken understood at once: the Rampaging Wolf's blind fury, its raw power, its indiscriminate destruction. Yet something about it still eluded him.
"As far as I know," he continued, "you fight among yourselves. Rage is natural to Savage Wolves… isn't it?"
He wasn't sure why he said it, but the words tumbled out.
Larveo gave a thin smile, as if surprised by the notion. Then, quieter, "Most of what you said is correct. But rage? Natural? That's an illusion. The frenzy you witnessed wasn't the kind we're used to."
He offered a hollow laugh.
Darken studied him and noticed a deeper expression settle on Larveo's face—not anger, not scorn, but the look of a man who has lost something irretrievable: that calm weighed down by inner torment. Darken recognized it well—the shape of helplessness.
Only then did he realize that the plight of this race exceeded their own will. The Rampaging Wolf was a threat they could handle... yet something unseen bound them. Not an outward weakness, but a familiar suffocating fear.
In a distant past, he had been a slave—strong in desire, powerless to act. Courage was not his failing, but fear. And when fear roots itself deep, it becomes paralysis—whether acknowledged or not.
In that moment, Darken perceived that these wolves were trapped in a cage of their own making. Not solely because of the Rampaging Wolf, but because of what it represented. Was it pure fear? Or its overwhelming power? All possibilities seemed illogical when weighed against the Savage Wolves' nature—they should fight to their last breath, no matter the foe.
And yet something invisible held them back. Darken felt compelled to uncover its source—not because it was vital, but because his curiosity demanded it.
They pressed on through scattered rubble and crumbling stone lairs. Just before they reached the threshold of the rock-hewn den, Darken stumbled over a small wolf.
It was an incomplete humanoid—more a wolf-childe than a man-beast.
"Huh?" Darken murmured and crouched to see the pup at his feet. The others halted.
The little wolf's eyes bore the same empty fear, softer and more fragile. It was not aggression he saw, but pure, instinctive terror; its body curled defensively, ready to flee or fight.
Gently, Darken reached out and stroked its head. The pup trembled, then relaxed as if sensing his goodwill.
"What's your name, little one?" he whispered. "No need to fear—I won't hurt you."
The wolf-childe said nothing, just stared with puzzled, childlike eyes. Then it scampered to its mother, who shielded it at once.
Darken watched the reunion silently, realizing how deeply this race mistrusted him, despite his lack of threat.
"Let us go on, Larken," Larveo said in his flat voice. "The king waits—or perhaps he does nothing but wait."
Darken said nothing more and followed into the stone den.
Darkness greeted them, broken only by torches set into the walls. The light was dim but enough to reveal a narrow passage that did not last long. Darken glanced at his companions: as silent as ever—no words, no movement, only dutiful accompaniment.
Midway down the corridor, his voice echoed between the torchlight: "Is the king in a suitable mood to talk? Or did you simply bring me here to test my luck?"
Without pausing, Larveo answered: "Not exactly. You'll find him sharp of temper, cryptic in reply. At best, he may refuse to speak without having your head severed first—so yes, test your luck." He spoke evenly, without a hint of jest.
At the corridor's end, they entered a fairly large chamber—simple but well-kept. The stone walls were carved with modest care; torches cast light just enough to accent the room's contours.
At the far end stood a raised, flat rock draped in a hand-embroidered red cloth—an odd flourish for a wolf-king's den, suggesting another race's handiwork.
"My lord, leader of this pack and these lands, I present you my greetings," Larveo intoned, kneeling until his knee touched the floor.
Darken saw four formidable wolves—two flanking the entrance, two beside the stone throne. His companions bowed their heads in respect.
Only then did Darken glimpse who sat upon that throne: a majestic wolf with long, white-frosted fur and a face carved by scars. His steel-gray eyes never blinked, embodying true ferocity.
Reclining on one elbow, his head resting in his hand, he regarded Larveo without moving, then lowered his gaze to scrutinize Darken from above.
"Larveo, children of the Forbidden Elves' lands, raise your heads," King Kazler's gravelly voice declared—an order beyond refusal.
Larveo straightened at once, followed by Toril and the others. Darken, however, remained still, waiting to be granted permission to speak.
"And you, outsider… introduce yourself," King Kazler addressed him directly.
Well… after all I've seen, this king himself seems shackled. What's truly going on in this land?
Darken pondered, then drew a steady breath and spoke in a measured tone: "I am called Darken. A man without known identity. I came to these lands to meet you… and to strike a bargain."
His words were chosen—neither flattering nor arrogant.
He waited for the king's reaction, but Kazler remained impassive. Silence stretched on until Darken remembered Larveo's warning.
It seems the king will simply ignore me. But on the other hand… I might have found an opening for a deal—if such a thing is even possible.
No… I mustn't rush. If this ends in a deadlock, I still have one last card to play.
Darken fell silent, as did the king. Toril, Adinis, and Laro felt the oppressive tension squeeze the air. Adinis closed her eyes, striving to calm herself under the terrifying weight of the moment.
"Darken…" the king finally rumbled, "you wish to bargain with me? Do you think me so easily approached? You enter my realm, my den… and say you know nothing of yourself yet offer a deal? It seems you…" His tone shifted, dropping to a cold threat, "know nothing of how kings act."
"Eryl, daughter of Toras… Princess of the Forbidden Elves' lands." Darken pronounced the words heavily, shattering the stunned silence—even Kazler's composure faltered.
The king's gaze sharpened, and he adjusted his posture: "Eryl… Princess of the Forbidden Elves, pure of heart and heir to the White Tree's crown. What is your relation to her?" His voice now brimmed with seriousness as never before.
Darken answered in a firm voice: "Princess Eryl was violated and humiliated by a human named Carl Lowrys . He lives in a wooden hut in a desolate clearing in the Shadowy Forest. He found her injured, her leg twisted beside a tree… yet instead of helping, he assaulted her and committed his crime."
He recounted every detail he'd gleaned from Carl's dairy, as if he'd witnessed it himself. Shock registered on every face—Toril's, Adinis's, Laro's—they were the first of the Elves to learn the truth, even before their own royalty.
Darken continued : "In the end, after examining her, it was found that she was poisoned with a potent toxin that causes complete paralysis. The poison coursed through her veins like a second lifeblood. That is why I stand before you now: I request—King Kazler—that I be granted some of your blood to create an antidote and save Princess Eryl."
Before he could finish, the king raised a hand to silence him.
"All that happened to her… and you tell me this now? Where were you when you could have killed the man you call Carl?"
Darken expected the question. Calmly, he replied, "I am not from this continent. I came from Vingard after an incident that brought me here. When I arrived at Karl's hut, he was already dead. I entered, read his books, and discovered the truth through his own writings."
He omitted his own past, as Prince Toras had advised.
Kazler's anger grew visible. He snapped, his voice rising: "And what did you do with his corpse?"
So… this is the question that's been dogging me, the reason I pressed on. The moment to gamble, with the king at the height of his wrath.
Darken considered, then spoke evenly: "I… buried him."
In the next instant, Adinis lunged, seizing Darken by the collar: "YOU BASTARD! HOW DARED YOU BURY HIM?!"
Her fury burned bright—so intense that even the king did not intervene, merely watched with unblinking eyes.
"ERYL IS DYING! WE'RE HUNTING HER ATTACKER… and you? YOU BURY HIM AS IF HE WERE A MAN WORTHY OF RESPECT! HOW COULD YOU?!"
Tears streamed down her face, fueling her rage.
Darken closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, "I buried him before I read his dairy… before I knew of his crime." Gently but firmly, he freed her hands from his collar.
"I know the guilt for what happened to Eryl weighs on me… and so I came to assume responsibility and save her."
He stepped forward, each footfall slow and resolute, toward the stone seat where King Kazler sat. The king regarded him with wary suspicion.
Darken stood before him, placed a fist over his heart, and declared, "King Kazler… give me your blood, that I may forge the antidote. Do it for Eryl—daughter of the king who has ever stood by your side. In return…"
He paused, then finished, "I will deal with the Raging Wolf… alone and myself ."
Silence fell as disbelief rippled through every face, above all Kazler's.
The king looked at Darken as though he'd delivered an irreversible verdict. Yet the true question remained: was Darken staking his life on a suicide pact, or did he harbor some deeper plan that only one who truly understood facing death in silence could comprehend? .