Romans & histoires Taph Fanart Forsaken

“The entrance is behind here. Only the heart of the balance can open it.” Cole stepped forward, holding the crystal up to the runes. The crystal’s light merged with the runes, and the rock began to grind open, revealing a dark tunnel that led deep into the mountain. The air inside was cool and still, and the only sound was the drip of water. They walked into the tunnel, Lila’s light leading the way. The walls were covered in carvings—depictions of the first gods, creating the world from nothing. Cole studied them as they walked, his eyes widening as he saw a figure that was not like the others—a tall, dark figure with eyes like purple fire. The Forgotten.

She demanded. No one spoke. The answer was too shameful. You could not agree, isn't that it?” the Goddess asked bitterly. “Even on the brink of annihilation, you bicker and squabble like spoiled children. Fools! If you had united sooner, Ferrivor and his master could have been stopped before they began.” “The beast is ferrivor? But they died with Lupus Tenebris.” Donton whispered. “He lives now! Judy Bloodfang has resurrected The evil wolf! Along with all his creatures of destruction! Ferrivor, the Red Noxala, and his screaming souls. White Hollow has been opened!”

It was all because she was an omega, the lowest sect of Karth, the werewolf world. About her origin, Bianca was a war slave originally from the Ironfang pack. However, a bloody war ensued eighteen years ago between the Ironfang pack and the Drakonvale pack. The Ironfang pack ended up losing most of their territories and thousands of their people were taken as slaves. Bianca was one of them.

It was in that exact moment of exhaustion that my Lycan finally roared to life, clawing her way to the surface. “They aren't bringing in reinforcements, Seraphina." Her voice echoed through our shared consciousness, erratic and sharp as a razor. “Look closer at their bodies. They aren’t really dead.” A cold shudder went down my spine as I ducked beneath the swinging blade of a brainwashed rebel. I drove my palm into his chest, unleashing a concussive blast of S-rank energy that sent him flying into the dirt. I forced myself to look. To really look at the fallen bodies scattered across the blood-soaked grasses.

The card burned gold, then sank into my palm like it belonged there. The table waited. Thorne flipped next. His card: A boy (maybe twelve) locked in a stone crypt, wrists bleeding from silver chains. A woman in Council robes (Vespera) standing over him, whispering, “Crave nothing, want nothing, and you’ll never break.” Caption, in Thorne’s own handwriting from centuries ago: Because I learned to starve before I learned to live. The card turned to shadow and slid into his chest, right over the Sanguis Draconis mark.

He stood straight, his hands behind his back, his eyes cold and focused. “If we allow Alpha Aiden’s body to remain alive,” he said in a firm voice, “it will only become a distraction.” Hunter’s struggling slowed slightly, though his fists were still tight. “Varkros has already taken over his body,” he continued. “And if we want to send Varkros back to the underworld, we must destroy the host.” The words felt heavy. Like they pressed down on everyone in the room. “That is the only way,” he added. “We know this. The elders know this. Our packs have lived with this knowledge for generations. This is not new to us.”

He shouldn’t be. Thalia walks beside me, not saying anything, but I can feel the heat still rolling off her, contained, for now. Controlled. She’s holding herself together with sheer will, and honestly? That might be the most impressive thing I’ve seen all day. The door to the cellar is at the far end of the hall, half-hidden behind an old tapestry of the pack crest, two wolves circling one another in a never-ending loop. It’s symbolic, I guess. Life. Death. The shift. The spiral we’re all trapped in. Shaun pulls it aside without ceremony and unlocks the door beneath.

"Or something like him." A chill slid down my spine. "There have been others before." I dragged my gaze from the drawing to her face. "Others?" My voice came out thinner than I wanted. "How many?" Mara didn't look away. "Enough that our ancestors knew to fear them." --- She turned the page slowly, as if giving me time to breathe. I didn't take it. "They are called the Forsaken," she read, her voice low but steady. "Wolves who rejected the Moon Goddess's gift… or were rejected by it."

Jenkins netted probing tendrils silent and swift, Sofia's binds weaving tight: “Clean sweep—flanks hold iron; void pulses intimate, targeting glow.” Mara distributed potions vigilant: “Resist the deep lures—links active constant; Damian watches close, legacy bolsters.” The abyss-heart loomed colossal cavern, artifacts crowning a void-throne: ancient shards pulsing the Hunger-core fierce, guardian-entities colossal and grotesque, chitin-plated maws multi-fanged and salivating, void-pupiled eyes fixating personal with booming intimate whispers: *Heirs sweet... bleed your essence, crown unbound awaits. Adapt to us, or perish in ecstasy's devour.*

A slow, steady beat, like war drums made of bone. Raymond’s head snapped around. “That’s not us.” Out of the shattered horizon, the Forsaken warriors returned. Not Kieran. Not anymore. But his army hadn’t died with him. Twisted werewolves, some missing limbs, others fused with shadow, their eyes burning red. They poured from the east like a tide of nightmares, their growls low and unified. Raymond turned to Caitlyn. “We have to go.” “There’s nowhere to go,” she whispered.