Far from the wastelands, deep within their cavern of bone and silk, the Wyrmshade Coven watched the night unfold. A jagged crystal, veined with shadow, pulsed upon their altar, and within its depths, the image of Thyra Veyth and her two assassins flickered like smoke.

The sisters circled the stone, lips moving in riddled chants, their voices weaving into a low, unnerving harmony. Around them hung talismans of flesh and bone, strung on sinew, dripping slowly into bowls of black ichor.

At the chamber's edge, their pet abomination stirred. Once broken by Lady Sera's contemptuous kick, it had been sewn back together with fresh sinew and black stitches. Its patchwork eyes rolled in different directions as its mismatched limbs twitched and flexed, as though relearning how to exist.

One of the Wyrms traced the crystal's surface with a claw.

"Sssee her run, swift as night,

but all flames fade, all fires lose light."

Another scattered bone-dust into the flames, smoke curling like serpents.

"Ssshe trusts her blade, sharp and true,

but iron breaks, and ssshe will too."

The third leaned close, her whisper sharp as glass.

"Not yet, sssisters, the hour not near,

when her prey is close, then weave the fear.

Her pride will fall, her ssstrike undone,

the Huntmaster ssspared, the Regent undone."

Their chanting swelled, rhymes folding into curses, each syllable making the crystal throb with lightless energy. The abomination tilted its head toward the sound, stitched lips parting in a wet, broken growl.

The Argent Vale stretched wide beneath the morning sun, its silver-tipped grass swaying like waves in the wind. In its heart, Kael stood with his kin, eyes sharp, twin daggers strapped at his side. His voice carried over the field as the beastkin drilled in their ranks.

To the east, the Rangers lined themselves in formation, bows drawn, loosing shafts into targets marked on tree trunks. Their arrows struck with deadly precision, the rhythm of their volleys like thunder rolling through the vale.

To the west, the Warriors clashed in heavy armour, axes and blades colliding in brutal contests of strength. Dust rose with every strike, their snarls echoing across the field as steel rang against steel.

Closer to the treeline, the beastmasters knelt in communion with their companions dire-wolves pacing, bears snorting, owls circling overhead. They spoke in low growls and clicks, subtle gestures guiding claw and fang with uncanny harmony.

Moving silently among them were the Scouts, blades short and sharp, their movements quick and fluid. They leapt from shadow to shadow, striking dummies with unseen blades before melting back into cover, their stealth unmatched.

And in the very centre stood the Argent Vale Guard. Their armour gleamed, heavy steel embossed with the wolf crest of their people. Shields bore the same sigil, broad and unyielding. These were the oath-sworn protectors, the elite who had endured trials of body and mind to stand eternal watch over the Vale. They did not leave it, not for war, not for glory. Their vow was simple: the Vale would never fall while they still drew breath.

Kael walked among them, his eyes lingering on the Guard as they locked shields and advanced as one, unbreakable as a wall of stone. Pride flickered across his face and yet behind it, a weight remained. Two of his kin had already fallen to a vampire's hand. He would not lose more.

"Sharpen your claws. Ready your blades," he called, his voice carrying across the drills. "If the shadows come again, they will find hunters waiting."

A chorus of howls rose in reply, fierce and defiant, echoing through the silver vale.

Night cloaked the Argent Vale, the silver grasses whispering under the moonlight. At its heart stood the beastkin's stronghold a vast encampment of timber and stone, ringed by a towering palisade of sharpened logs. Torches burned along the wall, casting flickering light on the sentries pacing above.

From the treeline, three shadows watched.

Thyra Veyth, leader of the Veilborn, crouched low, her eyes glowing faintly red. At her flanks knelt her chosen assassins, blades already drawn, faces hidden beneath their hoods.

She allowed herself the faintest breath of amusement. "So this is the proud Vale. A wall of wood, a handful of howling dogs... and they believe themselves safe."

One of her companions chuckled under his breath. "We crossed Veyra as if it were nothing. No alarm, no chase".

The other gestured toward the patrol above. "They walk in circles, same path, same step. Blind and dull. It will be easy."

Thyra raised her hand, fingers cutting the air with practiced precision. In silence, the three traded gestures swift, exact, the plan unfolding between them without a word spoken.

Above, the beastkin guards continued their routine march, oblivious. Below, the assassins melted deeper into the shadows, their eyes fixed on the walls of the Vale.

The hunt was about to begin.

Without hesitation, the assassins moved.

In a blink, Thyra's two shadows split, darting off in opposite directions, their steps silent as death. Thyra herself surged forward, a streak of black and crimson. She scaled the palisade in a breath, slipping past the cruel spikes at its crest, and dropped soundlessly behind a patrolling beastkin ranger.

One dagger drove into his lungs, the second sliced his throat swift, clean, merciless. She looked down the wall. Her assassins had done the same, two more rangers collapsing without a sound.

Together, the three dropped from the wall, shadows slithering into the camp. Moving between tents, they slid closer and closer toward the Argent Den, their prey's lair.

Then it struck.

Thyra staggered. The world swam and spun, her limbs heavy, her will not her own. She pitched sideways, crashing into a tent. beastkin stirred inside, a startled cry cut short as she fell atop him. He shoved free, scrambling for air, his wolf-like head emerged from the fallen tent, only for one of Thyra's assassins to slice it clean off.

But the damage was done.

Shouts erupted, howls tearing through the night:

"Vampires!"

beastkin poured from their tents, blades flashing in the firelight. They swarmed, snarling, but the Veilborn carved through them with inhuman grace. Each strike was effortless, each dodge perfect, each counter leaving another body cooling in the dirt. Against scouts and rangers, they were untouchable.

Until the Argent Vale Guard arrived.

Four of them stormed into the fray, two on each assassin. Their shields bore the wolf crest, their swords gleamed in the torchlight, and their every step carried the weight of oath and iron.

Steel clashed with fang and claw. The assassins met them, and for the first time, their flawless dance faltered. The Guards' blades moved with power and precision, cutting close, forcing the vampires back step by step.

Deep within their lair of bone and silk, the Wyrmshade Coven leaned over the crystal, its surface glowing with the flickering images of battle. Thyra stumbled across the vision, clutching her head as beastkin swarmed.

The three sisters cackled, their voices hissing in unison. Their chants turned sing-song, sharp as broken glass:

"Thyra stumbles, Thyra falls,

the Regent's pawn obeys our calls.

Sera's pride will bleed tonight,

her dagger dulled, her flame made slight."

Their pet abomination lurched and twitched beside them, sewn flesh creaking as if it too laughed with the witches.

The Coven swayed together, eyes glinting in the crystal's light, their harmony wicked with glee.

The clash roared through the camp. The two assassins fought like shadows come alive, their blades flashing as they deflected the strikes of the Argent Vale Guard while circling protectively around Thyra, who writhed helplessly in the dirt.

"Up, Thyra!" one of them hissed, parrying a heavy swing. "Get up!"

But she could not. Her vision spun, her limbs leaden, the world tilting until at last she fainted under the weight of the Wyrms' curse.

The assassins fought harder, desperation sharpening their fury. One lashed out in a whirlwind of strikes, forcing back two Guards at once. His speed blurred, each slash so fast it seemed the night itself was cutting at them.

The Guards held, shields up, blades steady but even their elite discipline strained under the assault. A strike slipped through, steel driving into one Guard's neck. He staggered, dropping to one knee, blood pouring but his eyes still fixed on the foe before him.

The assassin raised her dagger for the final blow.

Kael appeared, he erupted from the shadows behind the vampire, daggers flashing like silver lightning. In a single flurry, he carved the assassin apart chest, throat, limbs until the body fell in pieces at his feet.

The second assassin recoiled, breaking from the Guards in a wild backward flip. Landing light as air, he glanced once at Thyra sprawled in the dirt, then at his comrade's butchered remains.

His decision was instant.

He vanished into the night, gone with such speed that no beastkin could follow. Only the echo of his footfalls remained, fading into silence.

Kael stood amid the ruin, his daggers dripping, his chest heaving. All around him, the Argent Vale lay scarred. beastkin bodies littered the earth, their blood soaking into the silver grass. Cries of grief and pain rose into the dark, the whimpers of children clutching at fallen kin.

The Huntmaster's voice cut through the chaos.

"Aid the wounded! Now!"

The Argent Guard who had taken the blade to his neck pressed a paw against the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. Refusing to fall, he forced himself upright and staggered toward the mender's tent. Pride burned in his eyes, even as his steps faltered. He would not be carried. Not while he still drew breath.

Kael turned, surveying the devastation. The camp had endured, but victory tasted of ash. Too many lay still and cold. Too many voices had been silenced. The cost of this night would not be forgotten.

Kael stood over Thyra, her pale form sprawled in the dirt, her daggers lay cast aside, her cloak torn. Even unconscious, she looked like a shadow waiting to strike.

"Evil," Kael muttered, low and cold. "And evil will be dealt with accordingly."

A growl rose from the treeline.

The beastmasters arrived, slipping into the torchlight with their companions. Dire-wolves padded forward, fur bristling, fangs wet with hunger. A pair of black and brown bears lumbered close behind, their breath fogging in the night air. Panthers slinked at their heels, golden eyes fixed on the vampire sprawled helplessly before them.

Kael looked at the beasts, then back at Thyra. His gaze was hard, unflinching. With a simple gesture, he pointed at her.

"Have at her," he said, his voice like stone breaking.

Without another glance, he turned and walked away, leaving the snarls to rise behind him.

The end of chapter two.