The Veil was a gash in the Citadel's heart, a cavernous chamber where bone and obsidian merged into a grotesque gate, its surface pulsing with red light like a diseased organ. The air was thick with the stench of ash, blood, and something older—decay woven with divine hunger.
Magnus stood at the threshold, his broad frame silhouetted against the crimson glow, blood dripping from the gash on his arm where he'd sliced it to open the gate. His sword, etched with wolf-blood runes, blazed in his grip, its hum a defiant pulse against the Citadel's malevolent will. The curse in his veins was a furnace, a molten tide that clawed at his humanity, urging him to shift fully, to become the beast that could claim the shard hovering within—a jagged obsidian star, its darkness a void that swallowed light, its pulse syncing with the scar across his chest. Each throb was a whisper of power, a promise of godhood, and a threat of annihilation.
Kiera stood at his side, her lithe frame battered, her leg wrapped in blood-soaked cloth, the wound deep but her silver-flecked eyes unyielding. Her daggers, slick with vampire ichor, gleamed in the red light, her breaths sharp with pain but steady with resolve. She dragged Veyne, the tracker's frail form slung over her shoulder, Veyne's amber eyes flickering, her runes dim but pulsing with stubborn life, as if defying the Citadel's hunger.
Jakob followed, his young face etched with exhaustion, his makeshift fang-blade—salvaged from a fallen vampire—clutched in trembling hands. His human frailty stood stark against the chamber's otherworldly malice, yet his gaze held a quiet courage, his loyalty to Veyne an anchor in the storm.
Talia moved ahead, her wiry frame taut, her raven-feather tattoos glowing faintly, casting eerie shadows on her pale skin. Her curved blade was steady, its Old War runes catching the light, but her gray eyes shimmered red, mirroring the ravens that swarmed the gate, their caws a dissonant hymn that echoed through the chamber. Her chant, in a tongue older than Eryndor, wove through the air, a desperate plea to the Citadel's ancient power, her blood still dripping from her palm where she'd cut it to aid Magnus.
Gavrek wrestled Lysara in the shadows, his scarred Suldari frame straining, claws tearing at her vine-armor, her moon-eyes blazing with ghostly fury. Flames circled them, conjured by her raven-skull staff, its red glow pulsing in time with the shard.
Ragnar loomed at the rear, his hulking form scorched, his warhammer of iron and bone gripped tightly, its head etched with claw-marks. His steel-gray eyes burned with hunger for the shard, outweighing the pain of his burns, his ambition a palpable force that rivaled Magnus's own.
Isabella emerged from the Veil's crimson light, her presence a blade cutting through the chaos. Her pendant glowed, a blood-red star at her throat, its power weaving with the shard's pulse. Her silver eyes shifted—human for a fleeting moment, then monstrous, glinting with hunger and cunning. Her cloak was torn, her pale skin streaked with ash and blood, but her voice remained velvet, laced with venom.
"Magnus, you bleed for the Key, but it's mine. You're a dog chasing a god's shadow, blind to its cost."
Magnus's roar shook the gate, his werewolf form surging, fur erupting across his skin, claws lengthening to match the beast clawing within. His amber eyes blazed, the curse a wildfire that burned through his restraint.
"You'll choke on it, leech," he snarled, his voice a storm of rage and pain, each word a challenge to her dominion.
He charged, his sword slashing in a vicious arc, the runes flaring as they met Isabella's pendant-shield, a dome of red light that crackled under the impact. The force jarred his bones, pain shooting through his arm, but he pressed forward, claws raking the shield, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface.
Isabella's smile faltered, her silver eyes narrowing, a flicker of doubt breaking her composure. Her vampires lunged from the shadows, their claws gleaming like obsidian blades, their psychic hisses a clawing assault on Magnus's mind, each whisper a needle of doubt and fear.
Kiera met them with feral grace, her daggers carving through ichor and flesh, her movements a blur despite the blood seeping from her leg. She spun, slicing a vampire's throat, black ichor spraying, her snarl a mirror of Magnus's own.
"Stay back, you filth!" she spat, her voice raw, her loyalty a fire that burned through her pain.
Jakob hurled his fang-blade, its jagged edge piercing a vampire's eye, the creature's scream a wet gurgle that echoed off the walls. He stumbled, his breath ragged, but his grip on Veyne tightened, shielding her from a vampire's claw that grazed his shoulder, drawing blood.
Talia's ravens dove, their crimson eyes synced with hers, their claws raking another vampire, tearing flesh from bone. Her chant rose, her voice straining, the ancient words trembling with power as her blood mingled with Magnus's on the gate, the stone drinking it greedily.
"The pact!" Lysara screamed, her form flickering, half-corporeal, her vine-armor cracking under Gavrek's claws. "Blood binds the Key—yours, Varik, or hers!"
Gavrek's roar was primal, his amber eyes flickering with humanity, his claws plunging deeper into Lysara's shoulder, black blood weeping like tar. Flames from her staff seared his chest, the smell of burning fur filling the air, but he held fast, his strength waning but his will unbroken.
"You won't take him," he growled, his voice a broken vow, the Suldari curse a fading shadow in his blood.
Ragnar's warhammer swung, shattering a vampire into ash, the impact shaking the ground. His steel-gray eyes locked on Magnus, his growl a challenge that cut through the chaos.
"The Key's mine, Varik. Step aside, or I bury you and your pack."
His ambition burned, a vision of united clans under his iron rule, but his hatred for vampires—a wound from a past loss—flickered in his gaze, a crack in his defiance.
Magnus's claws tore at Isabella's shield, the cracks widening, her pendant's glow faltering. The shard's pulse quickened, a deafening heartbeat that flooded his mind with visions—the Suldari's fall, their wolves twisted into horrors under a blood-red moon; his father, forging the curse in a desperate pact with the First Howl; the god-beast itself, its eyes the shard's void, its howl a promise of dominion and ruin.
The curse screamed, urging him to claim the Key, to become its heir, to let the beast consume his soul. His scar burned, splitting further, black blood weeping down his chest, the pain a reminder of his humanity, his father's sacrifice, his pack's trust.
Veyne stirred, her amber eyes opening, her voice a broken whisper over the chaos.
"Magnus… don't… you're not him…"
Her words were a lifeline, pulling him back from the abyss, her faith a spark against the curse's fire.
Kiera's shout broke through, her daggers buried in a vampire's chest, ichor spraying.
"The gate's closing, Magnus! Grab the shard, or we're trapped in this hell!"
Talia's chant peaked, her voice cracking, her blood and Magnus's pooling on the gate, the stone trembling as the shard's darkness surged like a tide. Lysara's form dissolved, her moon-eyes fading, her voice a final, haunting cry:
"The Citadel claims all!"
Her staff fell, flames dying, and Gavrek staggered, his claws dripping, amber eyes human but broken, a flicker of gratitude in his gaze as he nodded to Magnus.
Magnus lunged for the shard, his claws grazing its obsidian surface, its void-energy searing his soul, burning through his blood like acid. The power was intoxicating, a promise of strength to end all wars, to unite the clans, to crush Isabella—but at a cost he could feel in his bones, a hunger that would consume Eryndor.
Isabella's pendant flared brighter, her scream echoing, a mix of rage and desperation. The gate began to seal, bone grinding against obsidian, the chamber shaking as runes flared and died.
Ragnar charged, warhammer aimed at Magnus's back, his roar a vow to claim the Key for himself.
Kiera tackled him, her daggers piercing his arm, blood spraying across the stone, her body trembling from the effort.
"Not today, Iron Fang!" she hissed, her strength waning but her will iron.
Talia's ravens swarmed, clawing Ragnar's face, their caws a warning of the Citadel's wrath.
Jakob dragged Veyne back, his fang-blade gone, his hands bloodied but steady.
The shard's pulse was a storm, its darkness a living force that clawed at Magnus's mind, urging him to surrender. He roared, his claws tightening, the beast within howling for release, for power, for blood.
Isabella's shield shattered, fragments of red light scattering, her silver eyes wide with fear for the first time.
The pack became a storm of blood and fang, the Key's power a blade poised over their fates, the Citadel's hunger a living force that threatened to swallow them all, its walls whispering of a war older than time—a war that would rise again.