CLASH OF THE REALMS

Adriago King Agra’s kingdom “I would not let humans be at peace. Never,” I said, my words hard as iron, sharp as claws. “This is a full moon, and we are fully fledged for a new attack.” The pack froze into silence. The hush that followed was thick, suffocating, like smoke curling around their lungs. Every wolf there knew the vow I had carried since boyhood, the vow I made on the night my mother’s life was taken. I had been only seven, but grief had carved him into steel. The memory never faded. It was a pain, a reminder, a promise. From my right, Damian stepped forward. The second-born, my brother in blood and in oath. His lips curled, teeth gnashing together in a sound that was more beast than man. His fists clenched tight, knuckles white, as though the bones inside his hands were itching to break free. “Ever since that night,” Damian said, his eyes fixed on Adraigo with the fire of a shared wound, “you swore never to forgive them. And I swore with you. Tonight, we keep that oath again.” A smirk spread across my face, though the satisfaction in it was colder than joy. It was the smirk of a man who knew nothing of peace, only vengeance. Damian’s voice sharpened, dripping with disgust. “I saw a celebration,” he said. “At an orphanage. Albany, Los Angeles. Laughter, clapping, dancing. Candles lit, little faces smeared with icing.” His lips twisted as though the memory itself repulsed him. “I watched from the shadows. They think themselves safe.” My teeth ground together, a wolf’s snarl rising in my throat. My eyes narrowed into slits, glinting like embers beneath the moonlight. “But the moon is high now. They must be at rest, dreaming, sleeping soundly. Let us pay them a visit. Let us give them a better rest.” A murmur stirred through the gathered wolves, low and eager, like the distant growl of a storm building in a cavern. Damian leaned closer, his voice edged with hunger. “Every werewolf in this pack should transform tonight. Let our claws speak for us. Let our teeth do the talking. We will tell those little ones they will never live to grow white hair, never live to see the world of men.” “Erase them,” Damian hissed, his grin savage, stretching too wide, almost feral. “Erase them like chalk swept from stone. No trace. No memory. Nothing.” The pack growled in unison, their hatred harmonizing until the sound reverberated through the clearing. Bodies trembled. Bones ached for release. The forest itself seemed to recoil from the hunger that rolled off them in waves. In lifted my hand. Instantly, the growls died. The air froze. My eyes glowed silver in the moonlight, piercing and unyielding. “But remember,” I said, each word deliberate, carved in steel. “This is not a game. This is not blind rage. It is justice. When you tear, tear clean. When you bite, bite deep. Do not hesitate. Do not falter. The humans have no mercy for us. They never did. We show none in return.” Damian’s fists tightened until blood beaded on his palms. His voice came as a hiss, cutting through clenched teeth. “They showed none to her. None to our blood. None to your mother. None to my second mother. Not even a drop of pity.” The memory struck me like a blade between his ribs. I saw her face again the lifeless eyes, the stillness of her chest. I had buried her with my own small hands once, trembling in the dirt, seven years old. The smirk faltered on my lips, slipping just for a moment, then hardened back into stone. “That night carved me into what I am,” I said coldly. “Tonight, I carve them into silence.” The pack shifted closer, their bodies pulled forward by the gravity of his words. Breaths grew ragged. Eyes gleamed faintly in the moon’s silver wash. “They sleep now,” Damian pressed, his voice nearly a growl. “They think dawn will come for them. But it will not. Only the dark will claim them. We will be their dawn, their eternal night.” He laughed then, low and sharp, a sound caught between mirth and madness. The pack joined him, their howls splitting the night. The sound burst across the city like thunder, a chorus meant to chill the marrow of anyone unlucky enough to hear. When the echoes finally began to fade, another voice cut the silence. “Powerful words,” someone said. Calm, mocking, laced with venom. Vigo. Their cousin. He stepped forward slowly, his stride easy, almost lazy, but his eyes gleamed with something dangerous. Unlike Damian’s hot fury, Vigo’s ambition was cold and calculating. He had always lingered at the edge, waiting, watching. Tonight, he showed his teeth. “You speak of justice, cousin,” Vigo said, his smirk thin and sharp. “But the pack follows strength, not sentiment. What strength is there in clinging to graves? What strength in dragging us into a boy’s old wound?” The words were soft, almost conversational, yet the challenge in them was unmistakable. A ripple of unease passed through the pack. Wolves shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between Adraigo and Vigo. Damian’s snarl ripped through the night, his rage instant and unyielding. “Hold your tongue, Vigo, or I’ll tear it from your mouth!” Vigo didn’t flinch. His grin widened, calm as still water. He had said enough. The seed was planted. Adraigo’s gaze bore into him, silver clashing with steel. He said nothing, but the air between them burned like a storm waiting to break. And then the storm came not from Vigo, but from within. Adraigo’s vision blurred. His breath hitched. The world tilted. The moon seemed to bleed across his sight, its silver light flooding his mind. And then came the vision violent, vivid, merciless. The orphanage, bathed in shadow. His claws raking across pale walls, his teeth tearing flesh. Children’s cries echoing, bodies limp and bloodied. And there, among them, a single child, frozen, staring up at him. Hazel eyes wide and trembling with tears. His mother’s eyes. Adraigo staggered, just for a moment. His chest tightened. His hand trembled at his side. The smirk he wore like armor cracked, revealing something raw beneath. And just as quickly, it was gone. The vision shattered. The moonlight returned. But the echo of those eyes remained, carved into his chest like a wound that would not heal. The pack saw none of it. They only saw hesitation. The brief falter of their Alpha. And in the silence that followed, Vigo’s smirk deepened. Adraigo clenched his jaw, forcing steel back into his veins. He straightened, his fist closing tight enough to draw blood. The mask returned, cold and cruel. “Forward,” I commanded, my voice cutting through the night like a blade. “To Albany. To their false safety. To their final rest.” The pack howled again, renewed in their hunger, the sound echoing over the city like the tolling of a death knell. But as the pack surged forward into the shadows, two truths lingered in the clearing like smoke. Vigo’s ambition had found its opening. And Adraigo’s certainty had cracked.