Judgment of the First Flame — The Turning Point
The thunderous clash between Alaric and Fenraak had stretched beyond the limits of endurance. Each strike sent shockwaves through the crumbling tower, the scent of scorched stone and spilled blood filling the air like a bitter incense. The pack, battered but unbroken, fought with a desperate ferocity, their howls punctuating the chaos as shadows danced and magic flared around them.
But beneath the storm of fury, something subtle yet profound began to shift.
Fenraak, massive and terrible, was slowing. His molten veins flickered, the blazing fire within dimming as if exhaustion clawed at the ancient beast's core. Each swipe of his claw, once a world-shaking blow, now grazed or was narrowly dodged. The primal storm that had threatened to consume everything was faltering.
Alaric's breaths came ragged and heavy, pain lancing through his limbs, but inside, a steady flame burned brighter. The weight of his fears and doubts, once crushing, now sharpened his resolve.
"Now," he growled to Seris, who nodded grimly, her crimson eyes blazing with renewed fire.
Together, they surged forward.
Fenraak howled in defiance, unleashing a torrent of searing flame that tore through the air like a living tempest. The pack scattered, some falling beneath the inferno's wrath, but Alaric and Seris pressed on, hearts pounding with a fierce determination.
Alaric dodged beneath Fenraak's fiery breath, feeling the searing heat singe his skin. With a primal roar, he leapt onto the beast's shoulder, claws sinking deep into molten flesh. The beast bucked violently, shaking him like a leaf, but Alaric held tight, his grip a lifeline amid the chaos.
From the corner of his eye, Seris darted between the glowing veins that pulsed across Fenraak's flank, driving her silver blade deep into a seam of molten fury. The First Wolf screamed, an anguished, guttural sound that shook the very heavens.
But the battle was far from won.
Fenraak reared, attempting to dislodge them both with a devastating strike. Alaric clung on, teeth gritted against the strain. His mind screamed with pain—but also with clarity.
He felt the blood of Fenraak coursing through his veins—the ancient connection blazing in his soul. This was no mere fight for survival. It was the reckoning of generations.
Drawing on every shred of strength, Alaric summoned a surge of energy, a brilliant pulse of silver flame igniting along his claws.
He slashed downward, carving a blazing mark into Fenraak's chest—a wound that burned not with destruction, but with the promise of rebirth.
The First Wolf staggered, eyes wide with shock—and then, slowly, recognition.
Alaric's voice rang out, steady and fierce: "We are the flame reborn. Not your destruction, but your legacy."
Fenraak's roar faltered, the fire in his veins dimming further until it became a soft, steady glow.
The battle's tide had turned.
The pack rallied behind Alaric and Seris, pressing the advantage as Fenraak's massive form began to shrink, the ancient fury tempered by the promise of renewal.
For the first time in centuries, the First Wolf bowed his great head—not in defeat, but in acceptance.
The dawn was breaking.