Portrait of Crimson Claw
1022 Words
The glow from the pendant was almost blinding, and it seemed to hum in my hand as the blood flowed into it. The crimson liquid disappeared into the sigil, drawn in by an unseen force. I could feel it, an invisible pull that made my heart race faster, as if the pendant itself were alive.
But that wasn’t the most surprising thing.
The chain began to burn.
Not like fire. No. It was a searing heat that radiated from the pendant, making the entire chain glow red—hotter than anything I had ever felt before. I gasped and tried to let go of it, but my hand wouldn’t move. The pendant pressed deeper into my palm, and I felt the heat crawl up my arm, spreading through my veins like fire.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the warmth faded.
I blinked, my vision swimming with the aftereffects of the intense pressure. The chain... it was gone.
Vanished.
As though it had never existed. There was nothing left in my hand but a faint afterglow that soon dimmed, leaving only the echo of its presence.
I stood there, dazed, unable to fully comprehend what had just occurred. But then, a sudden pain cut through me—a sharp burn low on my right shoulder. My breath caught in my throat as I instinctively placed my hand over it, feeling the heat seeping through the fabric of my dress.
With trembling fingers, I lifted the fabric, just enough to reveal the skin beneath.
What I saw made my heart race.
A mark.
It was like the sigil of the Crimson Claw, burned into my skin right below my shoulder. It was a crimson, intricate symbol, like veins of fire beneath the skin. It pulsed faintly, alive with an energy that was strangely comforting yet foreign. The same pattern I had seen in the pendant. The same design my ancestors had worn.
I touched the symbol cautiously. It burned, but not in pain.
I shuddered, letting my dress fall back into place as I stood frozen for a moment, the implications of what had just happened sinking in.
I took one last glance at the forest clearing, then made my way toward the ruins of the Crimson Claw palace. The place where my ancestors had once walked. The place where I had been drawn to, even before the vision. Now, with this mark on my skin, I felt an undeniable pull, a whispering urge to see it all.
The palace was hidden deep in the forest, surrounded by thick vines and flowers that bloomed in defiance of time. The once-grand structure stood at the edge of the world as if the very earth was reluctant to hold it up any longer. The stones were worn down, cracked, and eroded by centuries of neglect. Yet, there was beauty in its decay. Flowers grew where there were once grand halls, moss covered the stone like a second skin, and the scent of damp earth filled the air. It was a place of life, even in ruin.
I approached the crumbling gates and hesitated for a moment. The air here felt different. It was heavy with history. The whispers from my dream echoed faintly, like the rustle of wind through the trees, urging me forward.
The doors to the palace were half-open, the hinges rusted and groaning as I pushed them gently. As I entered, a sense of solemnity washed over me. The corridors were dark, the only light coming from cracks in the ceiling where the moonlight filtered through. Dust motes danced in the air, caught in the dim light.
I walked slowly, taking in the grandeur of what had once been. The walls were covered with old portraits and tapestries, some faded with age, others still vibrant in color, depicting scenes of wolves running through forests, of battles fought, and of lives lived long before mine.
I made my way deeper into the heart of the palace, drawn by something I couldn’t name.
Then, I came across a painting.
It was a portrait of my grandparents—Alpha and Luna of the Crimson Claw. Their faces were regal, full of strength and wisdom. My grandmother’s dark eyes stared out from the canvas, fierce and unyielding, while my grandfather stood beside her, his gaze calm yet powerful.
I reached out to touch the frame, my fingers brushing against the cold wood.
And in a heartbeat, the world changed.
The dusty painting shimmered, its colors swirling like smoke.
Before my eyes, the portrait transformed.
No longer did it show my grandparents.
It showed me.
Seated on a grand throne carved of black stone and lined with crimson velvet. A flowing white gown draped over me, delicate and radiant. A crown rested on my head—silver and bone woven together—glimmering softly in the light. My golden hair fell in waves down my shoulders, glowing like the sun had chosen to rest in its strands.
And beside me, two men on either side stood proudly.
All four had different builds, different expressions, yet all shared the same gaze. Warm. Loyal. Protective. Their smiles were not ones of pride, but of peace. As if standing beside me was where they were always meant to be.
I looked like a queen not just in title, but in essence.
Then—
The vision faded.
The portrait blurred and returned to its original form—my grandparents, their faces solemn and kind.
I gasped and stepped back, my heart pounding in my chest.
Before I could even begin to reflect on the vision—the portrait of myself seated on the throne, surrounded by the four smiling men—a sudden, sharp pain struck my head. I dropped to both knees, clutching my temples, bowing forward as the pain intensified.
Why am I kneeling here?
I was really confused. Why was I kneeling here?
I looked at the portrait of my grandparents and touched it again.
Again? Why Again? Did I touch it before?
I couldn't remember. I felt as though I had forgotten something very important.
- Writer
