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The Warhorn Calls

Author: Tyson Roy
last update Huling Na-update: 2025-08-12 01:20:43

The warhorn hadn’t sounded in over thirty years.

Forged in the uneasy peace after the Moon War, its note was never meant as a warning. It was a summons—a call to choose. Its low, trembling voice could carry across rivers and mountain passes, hush entire villages, and still the most fervent prayers. When it cried again, deep and unyielding from the ridge above Emberfall, every soul in the realm understood what no map could show:

This was no longer a war over lines drawn in the sand.

This was a war over belief.

Kael was the first to hear it.

He stood alone on the precipice of the Ravine of Echoes, the ash of Moonfang still clinging to his cloak. The wind carried that ancient note straight into his chest, forcing him to one knee not in defeat, but in recognition. The sound trembled through his bones, carrying the weight of every soldier who had ever fallen to that horn’s call.

“It begins,” he murmured, voice almost lost beneath the echo.

Moments later, Mourne emerged from the camp behind
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  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Warhorn Calls

    The warhorn hadn’t sounded in over thirty years.Forged in the uneasy peace after the Moon War, its note was never meant as a warning. It was a summons—a call to choose. Its low, trembling voice could carry across rivers and mountain passes, hush entire villages, and still the most fervent prayers. When it cried again, deep and unyielding from the ridge above Emberfall, every soul in the realm understood what no map could show:This was no longer a war over lines drawn in the sand.This was a war over belief.Kael was the first to hear it.He stood alone on the precipice of the Ravine of Echoes, the ash of Moonfang still clinging to his cloak. The wind carried that ancient note straight into his chest, forcing him to one knee not in defeat, but in recognition. The sound trembled through his bones, carrying the weight of every soldier who had ever fallen to that horn’s call.“It begins,” he murmured, voice almost lost beneath the echo.Moments later, Mourne emerged from the camp behind

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Scorching of Moonfang

    It began with silence.Not the kind that comes before war.The kind that follows it.Smoke drifted across the forest floor like a fog of memory, staining the trees, suffocating the birdsong. The wolves had vanished, scenting what was to come before it arrived. Only the wind moved, and even it carried no warning.By the time Kael reached the ridge, the horizon had turned black.And Moonfang… was gone.He rode hard.Too hard.The others called after him, Mourne, Vessa, even Seren, but he didn’t stop.His heartbeat outpaced the horse beneath him. His lungs seared. His blade rattled against his side like a ghost’s whisper.He crested the final hill as the sun split through the clouds.And all that greeted him was ash.Moonfang Citadel, the stronghold of his ancestors, the sacred keep of the Northern Wolves, was nothing more than scorched stone and bone.The towers had collapsed inward.The wall sigils had been burned off by acidfire.The great moon-carved doors had shattered, the iron war

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Deathroot Bloom

    The first bloom appeared where she knelt to bury a child.The soil there was black, salted by years, hardened by fire. The village had been empty long before the war ever reached it. Seren had only asked that they pause long enough to name the dead.It was meant to be a breath.A stillness.Instead, it became a sign.Vessa saw it first.A slender root broke through the ash, rising from charred earth like a blade through old flesh.Its leaves shimmered violet-black.Its petals held the sheen of blood laced with oil.Its stamen pulsed faintly in the dusk.Etched beneath it in the dirt, like veins, was a spiral rune.A Deathroot.A plant that should be extinct.A plant that only blooms when something divine returns.“This isn’t possible,” Mourne muttered, crouched beside it.“They were wiped out after the First War. Salted from the earth.”Kael’s hand hovered near his blade.“Where was she standing?”Vessa pointed.Seren hadn’t moved.She stood just beyond the bloom, still watching it sw

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Dustborn Rebellion

    Now, the empire cracked, not with fire or blade, but beneath whispers.Rumours travelled faster than the ashfall. They slipped through camps, circled fire pits, and coiled around command tents like unseen vipers.The ash army pressed northward, relentless as dusk. Each step scorched the ground, leaving behind blackened trails and crushed bones of memory. At its front rode Sirelia, a living monument to vengeance, draped in armour kissed by runes and retribution. Her mount, a horned shadowbeast, its skin like smoke and bone, snorted embers with each breath. And her cloak shimmered faintly, runes stitched from the names of the dead catching the moonlight like curses.But beneath the chants, behind the smoke, beneath the sound of drums and the clink of weapons, rumours festered like rot beneath gilded paint.They told of a city that chose to burn itself rather than bow.Of a people rising not for war, but for rebirth.Of Seren, no crown, no castle, walking as one among her people.And of

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Seren’s Choice

    The sky above Crescent Vale was clear, blessedly, eerily clear, for the first time in nearly a generation.No ash clouds strangling the sun. No crimson moons casting ominous glows over broken rooftops. No electric storms tearing across the skyline like ghosts of a dead empire. Just a pale, honest blue stretching infinitely overhead, as if the heavens themselves were finally willing to look down again.Below, Crescent Vale stood like a wounded monument to history. The capital city, once the heartbeat of Elara's shining realm, now lingered somewhere between ruin and rebirth. Marble arches shattered. Temple spires are broken. Ivy winding across old courtrooms where laws once chained the innocent. A realm's heart, now half-choked with the overgrowth of memory and silence.But something stirred in that silence.Something ancient.Something new.Thousands had gathered, drawn not by summons or decree, but by the whisper of change. Survivors came in caravans and on foot, threading through roa

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Lucien’s Last Debt

    The crypt beneath Greythorne Keep stank of old blood and silence older still. Not the silence of reverence or peace, but the kind that crawled beneath skin and sat heavy in the lungs. It was a silence earned through centuries of forgotten screams and oaths broken in moonlight.Lucien moved slowly.Each step was deliberate, each scrape of his boots against the wet stone echoing like a whisper of regret. Moss clung to the walls, slick and shining, and the faint drip of condensation echoed like a slow, dying heartbeat.This place was sacred once. Not to gods. Not even to monsters.To the promise of surrender.This was the last place vampires knelt. Not in prayer. In defeat.The Fall of Frosthearth had shattered what remained of the old courts. Once-mighty vampires who ruled with silk and fangs had been turned to ash and scattered to the winds. Nobles became phantoms. Queens became stories told by firelight. The covens, once proud and opulent, were hunted down, cornered, and extinguished.

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