Above the towering Arcanum Spire, dark clouds circled in a slow spiral, thick with tension and quiet thunder. Deep within the Spire, at the heart of its grand dome, sat the Council Chamber—a vast, echoing hall where only the highest wielders of magic dared to tread.
At its center stood a massive circular table, carved from obsidian stone infused with ancient runes. Fourteen high-backed chairs surrounded it, each etched with the sigil of the Archsages and Master Wizards who kept balance across the lands.
Seven sat to the left. Seven sat to the right. Yet, one chair remained empty.
A chair of blackened silver adorned with a sigil of three concentric eyes—the mark of the strongest among them.
The Grandmaster of the Circle, an elderly man clad in flowing white robes, slowly rose from his seat. A long beard of starlight silver flowed to his chest. In one hand, he held a staff crowned with a shard of skycrystal.
"He's late. Again," the Grandmaster muttered, glancing toward the empty seat. He sighed, then gently tapped his staff to the floor.
A resonant hum spread through the chamber, and all voices fell silent.
"Brothers and sisters of the Circle," he began, voice deep and commanding, "there have been increased reports of goblin and orc attacks in the northern and western frontiers."
A few members shifted in their seats.
"But these are no longer isolated raids. Every trace bears the taint of demonic essence. Shadows darker than night. Patterns too precise to be random."
The room tensed.
"We must not be blind. These are not mere accidents of war. They are orchestrated moves. And we, bound to the will of the gods, must stand as the first and last defense."
His gaze swept across the table.
"What of your territories? Have you seen any signs of movement?"
The chair of Fenrath scraped backward with a harsh sound. All eyes turned.
A tall figure rose, muscular and fierce, his presence alone enough to command attention. Silver hair tied back with a strip of wolfhide, his armor was marked by the symbol of a crescent claw.
"I, Fenrath of Clan Moongrim, speak now."
A murmur passed through the chamber.
Moongrim—one of the most ancient lycanthrope clans. Guardians of the Northern Reach. Known for their ability to shift into werewolves at will, and for their unyielding hatred of demonic vampires.
"A village near my border," Fenrath growled. "It was not destroyed. No fire. No rubble. But it was... wrong."
He leaned forward, fists clenched.
"When I arrived, twelve adults had already been slain. Not simply killed. Their hearts had been forcibly removed. Ritualistically."
A sharp intake of breath echoed among the council.
"And worse... thirty infants were missing. Taken without a trace. No blood. No tracks. Just an eerie silence—and the thick stench of demonspawn."
His jaw tightened.
"I was too late to stop the kidnappings. But I caught one of them—an imp, or something close."
From his satchel, he lifted a glass container swirling with black smoke. Inside floated a twisted, emaciated figure with hollow eyes.
"This one would not speak. Not even when threatened. He looks at me as if he knows something I don't. I tried. Truly."
Fenrath's voice darkened.
"But every time I see its eyes, I feel rage clawing at my skin. I nearly tore it to pieces."
He turned to a thin, sharp-eyed wizard seated on the left.
"Helmir, Sage of Mind. You have the gift of Hypnosis. I need you to extract what it knows. Before I... lose myself."
The man addressed—Helmir—let out a long sigh. His dark robe shimmered with illusionary light.
"Troublesome, as always, Fenrath. Very well."
He stood and waved his hand in lazy circles. Symbols of pale blue began to rotate around him.
"Let's see what secrets you hold, little vermin."
But before he could finish casting—
BOOM.
The chamber doors flew open with a thunderous blast.
A solitary figure walked in through the swirling mist.
His appearance was disheveled. Cloak half-draped, boots dusty, his hair long and messy, partially covering a sharp gaze beneath.
"Ah... everyone's already here," he said with a grin. "Smells like something rotten's hiding in here."
Without warning, he lifted a finger.
A crackle of magic surged—
The bottle containing the demon exploded.
Smoke, shards, and corrupted essence scattered, instantly annihilated in a pulse of violet fire.
Silence gripped the room.
The Grandmaster's eyes widened.
Helmir recoiled.
Fenrath froze, the muscles in his jaw twitching.
"I sensed demonic presence," the stranger said, smiling faintly. "Reflex, you know."
The room did not move.
But Fenrath did.
"YOU FOOL!" he roared.
His body convulsed. Bones cracked, fur sprouted, claws burst from his fingers.
In seconds, Fenrath had fully transformed—his werewolf form towering over the table, saliva dripping from his fangs.
"I ALMOST HAD ANSWERS!"
He lunged forward.
The mysterious mage didn't flinch.
Everyone else rose from their chairs, preparing for what might erupt next.
But the Grandmaster raised his staff.
"ENOUGH!" he bellowed. A wave of light washed over the room, freezing Fenrath mid-leap.
The werewolf's snarl hung in the air like thunder, stopped by sheer force of will.
The Grandmaster turned his gaze to the newcomer.
"You dare act on your own, again, in this sacred place?"
The stranger shrugged, folding his arms.
"Would you rather I let him escape and butcher another village? Besides, that thing was no longer useful. You know it."
"That is not your decision to make," the Grandmaster said sternly.
A long pause followed.
Then, with a sharp breath, the Grandmaster gestured. The magical force holding Fenrath ebbed.
The werewolf fell to the floor, panting heavily. Slowly, he began to revert to human form, clothes shredded, fists shaking.
"This... is far from over," Fenrath snarled at the mysterious man.
The man simply smiled back. Not with arrogance—but with something colder. Something unreadable.
Around them, the storm outside howled louder.
The council had been shaken.