Ashes of the Covenant

The silence after war was louder than the battle itself.

Snow fell gently now—no longer red with blood, but white, soft, and quiet. The Rift of Chains was sealed, but its scars ran deep. Bodies littered the fractured plain. Wolves. Vampires. Nightborn monstrosities. The stench of burning magic still hung in the air like a veil of sorrow.

Varek sat at the edge of the collapsed altar, his arm in a sling, his torso wrapped in thick, bloodstained linen. Every breath ached. But he didn't complain.

He watched Selene.

She stood barefoot in the ashes of her kin, her long silver hair wild in the wind, her glaive stabbed into the frozen ground beside her. She hadn't spoken in over an hour. Not since they buried her father.

Kael Thorne's grave was marked by his armor—half-melted, battered, still smelling of singed fur. Around it, wolves had gathered in a silent circle, many in human form, heads bowed, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

He had died saving them.

Saving her.

Varek wanted to speak. To offer comfort. To break the silence with something—anything. But his voice caught in his throat every time. His grief was a cold thing. It didn't come in sobs—it came in guilt, in questions.

Could he have saved Kael?

Should he have killed Alaric sooner?

Was it his fault the god had awakened at all?

Selene finally turned to him.

Her eyes were raw. Hollow.

But she moved with purpose.

She knelt before him, resting a hand on his thigh. "We need to leave this place."

He nodded. "Where will we go?"

She looked to the horizon. "The Hollow Pact Summit. The Council must be forced to answer."

Varek blinked. "You want to walk into the Pact with a bounty on your head?"

Her jaw tightened. "Let them try and stop me."

They rode north within the hour, leaving behind the Rift and its dead.

The wolves followed—what remained of them. Only sixty or so had survived. A few dozen Nightborn vampires had fled when the god's voice ceased. Most of them were mind-broken, muttering prayers to the thing beneath the world. Varek had mercy-killed two that tried to claw their own faces off.

They passed through the Obsidian Marshes, sleeping in caves and under canopy thorns, hunted by Alaric's whispers and the occasional scout. The bond between Varek and Selene deepened in the dark.

At night, when the cold bit too deep, they lay entwined—skin to skin, hearts racing in silence. Sometimes she would cry without sound. He would hold her and pretend not to notice. Other times, her hands would roam his chest, her mouth claiming his like a woman drowning and desperate for breath.

Their passion became a language of pain and power.

She rode him under moonlight, slow and reverent, her nails digging into his shoulders, her gaze never leaving his. She whispered ancient oaths in the old tongue. He didn't understand the words—but he felt their meaning in her hips, in her breath, in the tremble of her thighs when she shattered around him.

And afterward, when they lay in sweat and silence, she whispered his name like a spell.

"Varek…"

Three weeks later, they reached the Hollow Pact's outpost—Gildren's Hold.

A fortress carved into the face of a blackstone cliff, it was guarded by vampire warpriests and druidic werebeasts, both sworn to the fragile truce that had once held the world in balance. Now, the Council was fractured—half swayed by fear of the hybrid prophecy, the other by fear of Alaric's god-kin.

Varek dismounted outside the gates, his cloak stained from travel. Selene strode beside him, armored in black leather, her glaive on her back, a silver circlet braided into her hair.

A herald stepped forward. "Identify yourselves."

Selene didn't blink. "Selene Valeborne. First daughter of the Moonfang line. Bloodsworn of Varek Nyxen."

Gasps. Murmurs. Half the guards raised weapons.

The herald narrowed his eyes. "You're dead."

Varek grinned. "Clearly not."

The gates opened slowly.

Inside the Hold, they were brought before the Pact Council—a semi-circle of ancient creatures seated on obsidian thrones. There was Eiran Voss, the vampire archduke with skin like porcelain and eyes like melted gold. Lira Mournroot, druid queen of the forestborn. Thane Cador, the werewolf warlord who once ruled the southern ranges. And six others, all powerful, all terrified.

"Why have you come?" Lira asked.

Selene stepped forward. "To tell you the truth."

She laid Kael's shattered armor at their feet.

"Your silence killed him. Your cowardice opened the Rift. And your delay will doom us all."

Varek watched as the council squirmed.

Eiran sneered. "You dare blame us?"

Varek stepped forward, letting his power rise. His eyes burned crimson. His voice was low, lethal.

"You watched for centuries. You let the prophecy rot in shadows. You hunted me instead of helping. Alaric awakened a god. What more proof do you need?"

Thane Cador rose. "And yet the god is sealed, is it not?"

Selene's voice cracked. "For now. But at a cost. My father is dead. Hundreds more lost."

Varek nodded. "Alaric still breathes. The Cradle still trembles. This isn't the end. It's only the beginning."

The council fell into murmured debate.

Then Eiran rose, his gaze cold.

"You want an army?"

Selene didn't flinch. "We want unity. Real unity. Not the illusion of balance you cling to."

Lira spoke. "And if we refuse?"

Varek smiled faintly. "Then we'll stand alone. Again."

Later, in the quiet of their quarters, Selene sat by the fire, staring into the flames.

Varek sat behind her, hands on her shoulders.

"You were powerful today," he whispered.

She didn't turn. "I feel empty."

"You're not. You're becoming."

She finally turned to him, eyes glossy.

"I miss him."

"I know."

He pulled her into his lap, arms wrapped around her.

She pressed her forehead to his. "If I lose you too—"

"You won't."

"I lost my pack. My father. The future I thought I'd have."

"You have me."

She kissed him—soft at first, then harder.

Her tongue slipped between his lips, hungry.

He groaned, lifting her in his arms, carrying her to the bed laid out with furs.

She straddled him again, this time slow, reverent.

"I want to forget," she whispered.

"Then I'll make you remember something else."

He undressed her like unwrapping something sacred.

And when he entered her, it wasn't desperation—it was worship.

Far away, in the ruins of Blackspire, Alaric stood before a massive cocoon of flesh and stone. A heartbeat pulsed from within.

He turned to his followers—twenty now. A cult of the Red Vein.

"Soon, the second god will wake. And this time…"

His eyes burned.

"…they won't be ready."