Cassian sat alone at the edge of the tavern's long counter, the rim of his wooden cup kissed lightly by the trembling fingers of firelight. The place stank of ale and sweat and war stories told too many times. The tavern was no grand hall, no place of banners or ballads. It was stone and timber and spilled drink—a hovel for soldiers, sharpened by blood and dulled by drink.
This was where the Iron Militant drank. Where the royal guard unstrapped their armor, set down their swords, and became men again, if only for a night. Cassian came not for merriment. He never did. He came for presence, for quiet company, for the ghost of laughter he could still recognize. He did not drink for pleasure, and he did not feast for joy. His cup was full, but his hunger remained elsewhere.
The tavern tonight was quiet—quieter than most nights, as if the city itself feared to breathe near its warriors. No common man dared share firelight with the cursed king's guard, not since the spirit fires. Not since the smoke had climbed the skies in the shapes of women and children. The Iron Militant had earned peace on the streets, yes—but they had lost something else in exchange.
Cassian raised the cup to his lips, letting the bitter ale coat his tongue like a truth he could never unspeak. It was not the fine wine of his youth—no Strongwine from the crystal slopes of Nightfall, no velvet taste of nobility. This was peasant's drink, rough and warm, swallowed like regret. But he drank it still. He drank it because it reminded him of who he had chosen to become.
He was born a Valareth, in the high rooms of Wolf Shore Keep, where the ocean's roar had once sung him to sleep. He had been a prince once—at least in name, if not in favor. But the prince had died quietly, long ago, and in his place stood a man cloaked in the green of the guard. A man who had traded golden halls for blood-slick alleys. A man who had vowed himself to the realm, not the crown.
The ale burned going down, but it did not warm him. It only helped him forget the weight of his blood, for a breath, for a blink. Yet no matter how deep he drank, he could never forget his duty. Not truly. It followed him, not like a shadow—but like a brand, carved into the soul, pulsing with every heartbeat.
Then, through the haze of tavern noise and the tired thrum of old songs, came a voice that shattered the silence around him like a sword drawn too fast.
"There he is! Our Iron Commander!"
Raymond's voice crashed into the room like thunder through stained glass. The man's boots stumbled beneath him, but his grin was wide as a banner in spring. In an instant, his arm was thrown around Cassian's neck, pulling him into the warmth of ale-soaked brotherhood.
Cassian exhaled a low breath—half a sigh, half a chuckle—but said nothing.
"With this man," Raymond cried, raising his splintering cup, "we've bled for peace, and peace bled back!" His words slurred, spilling with his drink. "To the White Wolf!"
The others echoed it—a chorus of grizzled voices, a salute built from weariness and respect. "To the White Wolf!" they roared, and the sound rang like an oath through the beams of the tavern.
Cassian smiled faintly. A smile forged not from pride, but from something sadder, older. A smile that said: They don't know what I've given up to become this.
Because names were heavy, and nicknames heavier still. White Wolf they called him, and maybe it fit. He had been born among wolves, raised on war, and now walked alone beneath a sky that offered no light. A wolf without a pack. A commander without a cause. Peace had come, yes—but it had come on scorched earth, and it had cost more than any man in that tavern would ever know.
He stared into the swirling ale inside his cup. It rippled slightly with the sound of laughter and cheers, but all he could see in its surface was a reflection of himself—blurred, golden-brown, like something drowned.
And for a moment, just a breath, Cassian Valareth wished he had never been born in a keep. Never sworn an oath. Never been made a wolf in the skin of a man.
But the moment passed, as all things do. He lifted the cup. Drank deep.
And said nothing at all.
The name echoed like a bell through Cassian's mind—White Wolf. It rang again and again as the men raised their cups, their voices rising in praise, loud and unashamed. Wooden mugs clattered against the counter. Ale spilled like warm rain. For a moment, the tavern swelled with cheer, with life, with the illusion of peace.
And then, as all noise must, it faded.
Raymond dropped into the seat beside him with a groan, his body slumping like a man who had bled all his strength into his cup. His breath reeked of drink and sleepless nights. He leaned in close, his voice lowered—not from caution, but from weariness.
"Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you," he muttered, licking the foam from his lip. "They found the deserters."
Cassian didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on the ripples in his drink, but his voice came sharp and steady. "They did? Where?"
"Grey Woods. Up north, past the ice streams of Nightfall. A pack of hunters found them—what was left of them. Sent word to the guards of Nightfall. Their raven came in this morning."
Cassian's fingers curled tighter around the mug. "Good. I assume they're in the dungeons now?"
Raymond paused, took another drink, and exhaled slowly through his nose.
"They didn't need to be captured," he said softly, almost regretfully.
Cassian's gaze finally shifted, narrowing with quiet intensity. He didn't speak, but the question was written in the hard line of his brow: Why?
Raymond answered without being asked.
"They were already dead."
Cassian stiffened, jaw tightening. "Wolves?" he asked. "A raiding party? A bear?"
Raymond shook his head. "No. Something stranger." His voice dropped to a whisper, though the tavern was loud around them. "They found them lying in the snow, their eyes and noses pouring blood. Not frozen, not torn apart. Just... empty. Every drop of blood drained from their bodies—soaked into the snow like wine into a cloth. Their skin was pale as bone. Hollow. As if the life had been poured out of them from the inside."
Cassian said nothing. He looked away, toward the darkened windows of the tavern where frost clung like dust. The Grey Woods. He had walked them once, years ago, alone and unafraid. Slept beneath the trees. Heard only owls and wolves and the brittle songs of wind.
He had heard the rumors, of course—whispers passed over firelight. Tales of travelers vanishing in the night, of strange lights moving through the trees, of beasts that left no tracks. But they were just that: stories. The north had always bred ghosts and cold superstitions. He had never believed them.
A silence grew between them, thick as snowfall. Then Raymond broke it.
"Where are the green cloaks tonight?" he asked, shifting topics with the grace of a drunk.
Cassian reached for his cup, lifting it again. "At the keep. Feasting in the high hall."
Raymond gave him a long look. "Isn't that little prince your brother? You're not joining the family?"
There was something sly in his tone, like a blade wrapped in linen. Mockery—light, but deliberate.
Cassian's answer came without hesitation, low and heavy. "I've grown used to watching from the corners."
His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of winters.
Raymond raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He knew better than to prod too deep. Cassian had always stood apart—born of royal blood, but armored in silence. The others might sing his name, toast to his victories, but he was a stranger even in their joy.
And Cassian… Cassian had learned that shadows were safer than sunlight. That wolves watched better from the trees than from the throne.
He took another long sip of ale and closed his eyes for a moment. Somewhere, beyond the city walls, the Grey Woods waited—silent, ancient, and perhaps no longer empty.
Something was stirring in the north. Something cold. Something hungry.
"You know what?" Raymond growled suddenly, rising unsteadily to his feet, his chair scraping the wooden floor with a screech. "Fuck the feast. And fuck the green cloaks. I never liked the bastards anyway."
His voice rose above the tavern's hum like a war drum at dawn. Heads turned, but no one dared interrupt. Raymond swept his arm across the air, sloshing what little ale remained in his cracked cup. His face was flushed, his breath thick with drink and fury.
"They think they're better than us?" he shouted, glaring toward the empty space where the green-cloaked men might have been. "Those highborn cunts in gold-plated armor—strutting through the keep like peacocks! They sit on silk chairs, sip Nightfall wine, and call it war!"
He slammed his cup down, wood cracking against wood, droplets of ale flinging out like blood from a blade.
"We are the iron fucking militant!" he roared, pounding his chest with a clenched fist. "We are the ones who bleed for this cursed empire. We are the ones who fight in the mud and the snow, not behind polished gates and marble walls!"
Before his rage could boil over, Cassian reached out and pulled him back into his seat with the quiet authority of a storm on the edge of breaking.
"Don't make things worse than they already are," Cassian said, voice steady as stone, but colder.
He held Raymond's gaze for a moment. No anger, no judgment—just the heavy, familiar weight of a man who had carried too many burdens for too long.
Cassian had always walked a razor's edge. Commander of the Iron Militant. Commander of the Royal Guard. A son of kings and a brother to soldiers. Two titles, two armies, two worlds at odds—and he, the weary soul trapped between them.
The Iron Militant were forged from the dirt and the fire, men who bled for every inch of ground, who lived by sword and silence. The Royal Guard wore cloaks of green and blades of silver, guardians of thrones who stood watch more than they ever marched. There had always been tension—resentment simmering like coals beneath the skin of civility. It was Cassian's burden to hold the peace between them, to play the bridge between pride and power.
Raymond let out a breath and slouched back into his chair, the fire dimming in his eyes. He raised the cracked cup and took a long sip, though the ale leaked down the side like a wound that wouldn't close.
"Any orders from His Grace?" he muttered, voice quieter now, less venom, more weariness.
Cassian hesitated, then answered, his tone stripped bare. "He asked me to pull the soldiers off the streets."
"And so here we are," Raymond replied, gesturing to the tavern's dim corners, where soldiers lounged like wolves with dulled teeth. "Off the streets and into the taverns and pleasure houses of the Street of Joy." His laugh came rough and broken. "A noble redeployment. You ought to join us sometime, Cassian. The whores are warm and the drinks are cheap. It's a beautiful place—if you close your eyes and forget what lies outside."
Cassian smiled faintly. It wasn't a laugh, but the closest he came to one.
Raymond had always called him Cassian, never Lord Commander, and in that simple gesture there was something sacred. Something brotherly. The kind of bond forged not in courtrooms but on battlefields. In the silence between arrows. In the blood spilled together beneath the banners of dead kings.
For a fleeting moment, the unease in Cassian's chest loosened. The king's order no longer pressed so hard against his ribs. He allowed himself to lean into the comfort of old friendship, even if the peace it gave was as thin and fleeting as a winter sun. But deep within him, that chill remained. The king had asked for the streets to be emptied. Had asked Cassian to stay through the night. And Cassian Valareth had learned, long ago, that when a king made strange requests—it was never without reason.
Something was coming. He could feel it in his bones. And ale, no matter how much of it he drank, could never drown out that kind of dread.
"Have you forgotten about my oath?" Cassian asked, the same faint smile still etched on his face like a scar he'd learned to carry without pain.
It wasn't a joyful smile, nor one born of amusement—it was the kind of smile soldiers wear when they're tired of explaining why they're still standing.
Raymond snorted, grabbing a fresh cup from the passing girl with a wink. "Honestly, fuck your oath," he said, already half-drunk, half-dreaming. "Go fuck a girl instead. You think the gods care if you spill seed when the world's already spilling blood?"
He leaned in close, his breath thick with ale and arrogance, and gestured toward the girl behind the counter—her figure dancing like a shadow behind lantern light.
"Look at her. Swishing those hips when she sees you. Pouring you the best ale in the city like you're her favorite tale. She wants your cock, Cassian," he whispered, grinning like a boy who had never outgrown the thrill of mischief.
Cassian chuckled, a soft and distant thing, like laughter heard through a thick wall. "First of all," he said calmly, "no, she doesn't. And second of all, I can't."
It was only a handful of words, but something in his voice changed—like the shift in wind before a storm. The smile remained, but it no longer reached his eyes.
Raymond noticed. He always noticed.
"If I break my vows now," Cassian said, his voice slower now, quieter, "then what do I even stand for?"
The moment hung there like a sword above their heads. Raymond stared at him, and the lines of laughter and drunken joy drained from his face like wine from a cracked goblet. He looked into his friend's eyes, saw the weight there—the burden, the ghosts, the promises made to no one and everyone at once.
"You always gotta make the fun times miserable, don't you?" Raymond muttered, his voice softer now, almost ashamed. He took another sip, smaller this time, as if it tasted bitter all of a sudden.
But before the silence could stretch too far—before either man could retreat into thought or memory—the night was torn apart.
A sound like the breath of a god erupted from outside, not a scream, but a roar—a monstrous, unfathomable bellow that cracked through the world like the sky itself had broken in two.
The tavern shuddered under the force. Glass exploded. The walls groaned. Dust rained from the rafters like gray snow. Cassian was already moving, already on his feet and running out into the street, instincts long honed by war and loss taking hold.
And then he saw it.
The sky above Wolf Shore had been split as if by the hand of wrath itself. Fire rolled across the heavens like a tidal wave of fury. Two entire city blocks, buried in the heart of the empire's proudest city, were swallowed in an instant. Blue flames painted the air in hues of hell, buildings crumbled like ash before a divine wind, and the streets—the very bones of the city—were buried in smoke and screams.
The explosion hadn't just been sound. It was feeling. It was soul. It cracked the air with a force that seemed to punch through the chest and grab the heart, squeezing it with invisible fingers. People ran like shadows fleeing the light, their cries lost in the thunder that followed.
But it wasn't just the fire. It was the smell.
Not the warm, nostalgic scent of wood burning in winter—but something darker. Something vile. A sickly-sweet, putrid scent, like flowers blooming in rot. The smell of flesh—human flesh—burning in the open air.
Cassian froze, for only a heartbeat.
All the stories. All the omens. The unease that had followed him like a second shadow—every quiet warning, every word spoken in fear and brushed off by duty—suddenly coalesced into flame and blood and truth.
From the heart of the blaze, two vast pillars of smoke rose into the heavens like the arms of ancient gods begging for absolution or vengeance—it was hard to say which. They twisted as they climbed, serpents of ash and sorrow, blackening the stars above with their grief. Beneath them, fire reigned not as a force of nature, but as a cruel king with no crown and no mercy. It moved without purpose, without conscience, devouring wood and stone, flesh and bone alike.
And in the space of a single heartbeat, lives—entire histories, names, faces, dreams—were reduced to whispers of ash. Children curled against walls that no longer stood. Mothers clutched the burnt tatters of what had once been sons. Lovers reached for hands they would never hold again. Those who lived did not call it survival—they called it torment. Their screams tore through the smoke like arrows of sound, rising and falling with a rhythm so raw and human it made the gods weep or look away.
Through this infernal nightscape, Cassian rode.
He vaulted onto his steed with the urgency of a man who had seen too much death to stand idle another second. His voice was a thunderclap, a command and a prayer all in one.
"Bring water! Save whoever you can!"
The words were carried on a wind thick with soot and despair.
Raymond was beside him now, sober in soul if not in blood, his face hard as iron. "FOLLOW YOUR COMMANDER!" he bellowed, and though the men knew what this meant—defiance of the king himself—none faltered. Not a single man hesitated. Some dashed for wells and buckets; others mounted their horses, armor glinting like silver lightning in the firelight. For they did not follow Cassian the Commander. They followed Cassian the White Wolf, the man who had stood between them and death more times than they could count.
The blue flames licked the sky like the tongues of a cruel and ancient god. They danced in Cassian's eyes, twin ghosts reflected in the mirror of his soul. His golden armor bore the reflection like the sun staring into the abyss. Around him, twenty men rode—no army, just a flicker of resistance in a city consumed by ruin. They wove through fire and rubble like spirits of vengeance and mercy, lifting bodies from the wreckage, shielding the wounded, whispering final comforts to the dying.
Cassian halted near a row of smoldering homes, his horse snorting with unease. He sat silent, staring into the fire as if it spoke a language only he could hear. The flames moved like memory—each flicker a face, a voice, a past he could not undo. For a long time, he didn't move. Around him, the world was chaos, but within him, something had gone utterly still.
What did he feel in that moment?
Disappointment? That the king he served had turned his city into a funeral pyre?
Regret? That he had not stopped it sooner?
Perhaps both. Or perhaps something darker still—the silent, soul-deep guilt of a man who had kept peace too long at the cost of truth.
And then, at last, the fire began to die.
Not because it was done, but because there was little left to burn.
Smoke clung to the air like mourning veils. The streets hissed and crackled, scorched black like parchment after a careless flame. The survivors moved slowly, like wraiths, covered in ash and grief. And among them, a fragile hope began to take root—not blooming, merely surviving.
Maybe this was the end. The last madness of a king gone mad.
The final flicker of that unnatural, blue inferno that had scorched the heart from Wolf Shore.
Some dared to believe it. Others—older, wiser, wearier—did not.
They watched the sky, eyes hollow and waiting, for dread is a seed that does not die easily once planted. They stood in the ashes like penitent ghosts, unsure whether they were mourning the dead or fearing what yet breathed.
Then came the sound that would break what little peace they clung to. The bells.
Not the clear, triumphant bells of feast or ceremony. No. These were the bells of mourning—low and slow and solemn. Their sound did not ring—it throbbed. Like a wound reopened. Like a memory summoned from the dark.
One toll.
Two.
Three.
Each one struck like a hammer to the chest.
Cassian's head rose sharply, and in that instant, something passed over his face—an emotion too complex for words. Alarm, certainly. Worry, yes. But beneath it, something else… something unspoken. Something known.
His eyes turned toward the distant silhouette of Wolf Shore Keep—dark now against the bruised sky, the royal castle and his family's ancestral seat. Its towers stood tall, proud, untouched by the fire. But pride did not make one safe. And the bells, ancient and sacred, did not toll for nothing.
He turned to his men, who had all gone still. The air was heavy again, but this time it was not smoke—it was expectation. The kind that comes before a blade is drawn. The kind that whispers: it is not over.
And in Cassian's heart, a single truth echoed louder than the bells: The worst is yet to come.