บท 3: Kylar: In Search of the Prophet

KYLAR

A giant arachnoid's head falls to the ground with a splatter of ichor. Its multifaceted eyes are dull, glazed, lacking their typical sinister luster.

"What is this?"

"It was found in the caverns, Alpha. Along with three more. Half the winter's storage has been contaminated." Zirris, my loyal beta, stands before me, hands clasped behind his back. Dried blood and green ichor stain his skin, but he doesn't flinch against the burning he must feel.

These mutant spiders are a neverending pest. Easy to kill, but their blood irritates our skin, bringing welts and blisters on contact. Once you've been exposed enough times, you build a type of tolerance—but the burning and itching is always there.

I strike the ground with my scabbard, each impact a dull thud against the dirt. Rhythmic. Constant. Like the beating of a heart that refuses to give up. I survey our temporary camp from my perch atop a weathered boulder, its surface as rough and unforgiving as the world we call home.

Tents of mismatched hides stretch across the barren landscape. My pack moves with purpose, preparing for a journey we've awaited for generations. The air hangs heavy with anticipation and the acrid stench of a dying world.

"Any word on the Prophet's whereabouts?" I ask the Lycan standing beside me, not bothering to look up.

"No, Alpha." His voice carries a tremor of fear. Good. "But... seven bolts of fire were seen in the sky."

My grip tightens on the scabbard. Seven. The sacred number. The sign we've been waiting for.

We have yet to find the Prophet who will guide us in the new world, but there's no choice left to us. Even without him, we will move forward.

"Prepare the pack," I command, my voice low and laced with steel. "We invade the new world. No one stays behind."

Rising to my full height, head and shoulders taller than the wolves of my pack, I bask in the light of the moon.

May the Goddess bless us all.

"Those who don't follow will die with this world."

"Yes, Alpha."

* * *

The camp erupts into a flurry of activity. Lycans dash between tents, gathering what little we have left. Weapons. Our meager stash of meat. Hides for the upcoming winter. We have no idea what we will face in the new world. Snow? High winds? Neverending rain?

Whatever it is, it has to be better than here. There's no life left in this world.

It's hard to breathe without aether in the air.

I stride through the chaos. Worried whispers reach my ears, but I pay them no heed. Fear is a luxury we can't afford.

"Kylar!" A voice cuts through the din. Nira, my third-in-command, pushes her way toward me. Her silver hair is matted with dust, her eyes wild with a mix of excitement and dread.

"Is it true?" she asks, falling into step beside me. "We're really leaving?"

"We have no choice." My gaze sweeps across the desolate horizon. Once, this land teemed with life. Now, only echoes remain. "The aether is almost gone. Without it, we're nothing more than beasts."

Nira's expression hardens. "And the new world? What if it's not what the prophecy promised?"

I stop, turning to face her. The tattoos on my skin pulse with restless energy, a reminder of the power that courses through my veins. Power that's slowly fading.

"Then we take it anyway."

A grim smile tugs at Nira's lips. She nods, understanding the unspoken command. We've come too far, sacrificed too much, to falter now.

"I'll oversee the preparations," she says, already moving away. "We'll be ready by nightfall."

As she disappears into the throng, I continue my path through the camp. Young pups cling to their mothers, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. Elders mutter prayers to long-forgotten gods. Warriors sharpen blades that have tasted more blood than most have seen in a lifetime.

My pack. My responsibility.

I reach the edge of the camp, where the land gives way to a sheer cliff. Far below, the last remnants of our world stretch out before me. Cracked earth. Withered trees. A sky the color of bruised flesh.

This is what we're leaving behind. A realm drained of life, of hope. A graveyard for dreams and ambitions.

"Alpha!"

I turn to see a young scout racing toward me, his chest heaving with exertion.

"Speak."

He drops to one knee, head bowed. "The eastern horizon is changing."

My pulse quickens. "Show me."

We race across the camp, my longer strides easily outpacing the young Lycan. As we reach the eastern edge, I see it. The sky itself seems to ripple and tear, revealing glimpses of another realm beyond.

Our salvation. Our conquest.