THE palace of Black Fur Pack stood like a sacred monolith, carved into the heart of the Ashen Cliffs. From a distance, it looked like a temple to ancient gods, its obsidian towers piercing the sky, its marble columns carved with snarling wolves, ancestral kings, and the eternal sigil of the Blackwood bloodline: a black wolf beneath a crescent moon.

Inside, the throne room simmered with a cold quietness, vast and intimidating. Torches licked the stone walls, their golden glow reflecting off polished ivory floors. At the end of the room, seated upon a throne sculpted from white granite and inlaid with silver veins, was Alpha Xanthos Blackwood, the feared ruler of Black Fur Pack.

He wore his ceremonial regalia, a robe woven from the pelts of the silver wolves, clasped with bronze fasteners and embroidered with symbols of dominance and war. Upon his head sat a thin golden circlet, shaped like rising flames. His jet-black eyes watched in eerie calm.

To his left and right, seated in high-backed stone chairs, were his most trusted aides. Men of lineage, legacy, and unwavering loyalty.

Archon Georgios sat closest to his right, dressed in dark robes and a silver-buckled belt. Though aged, his presence was formidable, his shoulders square, his beard like iron wool, and his face marked by old battles and older wisdom. His fists rested on the armrest, like someone prepared to leap to war if the need arose.

Next to him were Strategos Orion, the war tactician known for winning impossible battles; Lysander, the Keeper of Scrolls, famed for his knowledge of laws, history, and magic; and Kyros, the Master of the Blood Gate, head of the warriors who protected the palace.

All four men had pledged their loyalty not just to Xanthos, but to his father, and his grandfather before him. They had served Blackwood kings for over a century combined. They were wolves wrapped in human skin.

But today, none of them spoke. They just sat in respectful silence, awaiting the arrival of the one who had summoned them.

The mouthpiece of the gods, a prophet, a man of unmeasurable age, dressed in robes the color of decaying bone. He was both feared and revered, he was able to heal the dying with a whisper, call down rain on parched land, or cripple a warrior’s bloodline with a single curse. His eyes saw what others could not, it saw visions of futures long before they unfolded.

He was the Mantis.

Then, a low hum rolled across the hall, like wind whispering through the bones of the dead.

And the Mantis entered.

The torches dimmed on their own. A gust of chilled air swept through the room as he came forth, barefooted, with gold ash smeared across his pale skin and a single blue crystal dangling from a chain around his neck.

And all stood. Even the Alpha.

“Mantis, Seer of Shadows, Tamer of the Ether, Walker of Skies... you are welcome in the House of Blackwood,” Xanthos greeted, bowing his head slightly.

The Mantis didn’t bow, nor did he smile. He walked slowly to a circular stone platform placed in the middle of the hall. There, he sat cross-legged like a monk.

“My vision brought me here,” the Mantis said, his voice a gentle murmur, and yet, somehow, it echoed like a thousand whispers at once. “My vision made me summon you. And the vision must be spoken.”

Xanthos sat back down on his throne, adjusting the folds of his robe. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Vision or not, you summoned all of us here, Mantis,” he said. “There is peace across the borders. No threat has dared rise against Black Fur Pack in years. The wolves of the East still bow, the South sends us tribute, and the North... they bleed at the sound of our name.”

He looked across the hall, at his loyal aides, who nodded their silent agreement.

“There is no war. No rebellion. No threat. So tell me,” the Alpha continued. “Why are we here?”

The Mantis closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a long breath through his nose.

“Because peace is not proof,” he finally said.

“What does that mean?” Orion asked, tilting his head, his leather armor creaking.

The Mantis opened his eyes again, they were pale gray, like the sky before a storm.

“The time has come... for the Alpha to prove that he is truly a Blackwood. That he is worthy of the throne he claims.”

A gasp escaped from Lysander. The room stirred.

Xanthos, however, scoffed, then leaned forward on his throne, his eyes glinting with disbelief.

“I am a Blackwood,” he growled. “Was I not born of Ariston Blackwood, son of Myron Blackwood, grandson of Hector the Ironblood? Was it not my hand that spilled the blood of the Moon Fang rebels? Was it not I who marched into the Shadow Ridge with only fifty warriors and came out with the heads of three Alpha kings?”

“You have done great things, my Alpha,” said Kyros, in a low voice. “The gods themselves should tremble at your name.”

“Yes,” Xanthos agreed, rising to his feet now. His voice deepened with pride. “I have turned enemy lands into goldmines. I have enslaved rivals and made them kneel. I have honored the bloodline with conquest and iron will. To me, kindness is weakness and mercy is betrayal. Only power sustains the throne!”

The room echoed with thudding fists on chests. All but the Mantis were now roused with pride.

The Mantis nodded slowly, watching him.

“Yes,” he said. “You have conquered. You have ruled. But that is not what I speak of.”

Archon Georgios stirred in his seat.

“Then speak clearly, Mantis. What do you speak of?”

The Mantis slowly rose to his feet.

He drew out a pouch and tossed a powdery substance into the air. The torches flared blue. A faint illusion began to shimmer, a circle of moons turning red one after the other, until all turned black.

A stillness fell over them.

In a voice colder than any ice, the Mantis said:

“The dawn of the full moon is nigh.”

A stunned silence swallowed the hall. Even Alpha Xanthos paused.

Eyes shifted between one another. Shock bled into their expressions.

Orion’s mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. Kyros stood up abruptly, hand on the hilt of his ceremonial blade. Lysander’s scroll fell from his lap.

And Georgios?

The Archon’s eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in understanding.

He leaned backwards.

And for the first time in decades, he whispered something only he and the gods had once spoken together, when he was still a young man kneeling before the throne of Hector the Ironblood:

“It begins again...”