Chapter 136
The cave pulsed.
It wasn’t just darkness here–it was alive.
The black circle at the center of the chamber throbbed faintly with each heartbeat Marsen still had left, its faint glow crawling along the walls
like cil.
Francesco’s nostrils flared, the stench of scorched blood and ancient magic thick enough to taste.
Marsen didn’t move at first.
He sat slumped in the corner, those eyes–wrong, red, too bright–watching them with the stillness of a predator before the strike.
The book in his hands writhed as though breathing, its cover shifting between scales and skin, and a low whisper slipped from it, a voice that
wasn’t his.
Luca.
The sound rippled across the chamber like a snake through tall grass. Francesco’s hackles rose. His claws flexed, catching the dim torchlight.
“Marsen,” Francesco’s voice was half–man, half–beast, rumbling low. “Put it down.”
The Beta stepped forward, but stopped when Marsen’s lips twisted into something almost like a grin. His voice came out layered–his own, but beneath it, another deeper, older tone.
“You think Luca died,” Marsen said, his head tilting. “But he’s been here. Waiting.”
The book’s pages flipped on their own, faster and faster, the symbols inside burning in red light. The whispers grew louder–hungry. Then Marsen convulsed, a shudder ripping through his frame. His skin began to blister and peel in strips, not from fire, but from something clawing
at him from the inside.
Francesco knew it instantly.
The book was feeding.
“MOVE!” Francesco’s roar shook the cavern as Marsen screamed–half agony, half ecstasy–and his body began to change. His limbs lengthened, but not like a normal shift. Bones cracked in unnatural angles, joints twisting until they bent the wrong way. His mouth split wider than it should, teeth jagged and too many in number.
The warriors lunged forward, wolves meeting the corrupted thing Marsen was becoming. The clash was instant and brutal–snapping jaws, tearing claws, and the wet, meaty sound of impact echoing off the stone walls.
One wolf leapt for Marsen’s throat, but the twisted man–beast caught him midair and slammed him into the wall so hard his neck snapped before he hit the ground. Blood sprayed in a fine mist.
Francesco didn’t hesitate. He charged, his massive Lycan frame a wall of muscle and fury. His claws raked across Marsen’s chest, peeling flesh down to bone. But instead of falling, Marsen faughed–an ugly, wet gurgle–and black veins spidered out from the wounds, crawling up Francesco’s arms where the blood touched.,
He ripped himself back before it spread further, his breath ragged.
“Don’t let his blood touch you!” Marlow barked, shifting mid–leap to wrench a spear from his back. He drove it clean through Marsen’s side only for the corrupted flesh to close around the weapon and snap it in two like dry wood.
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The ground beneath them trembled. The circle on the floor flared bright crimson, lines of magic spilling from it like veins, shakin (up Marsen’s body and into the book. And then Francesco felt it–Ellaine’s charm, warm against his chest, pulsing in time with the magi
Award. A shield. Something in it pushed back against the corruption clawing at the edges of his mind.
Francesco gritted his teeth, using that sliver of clarity to move again. He drove a clawed fist into Marsen’s face, the blow tracking bone, and wrenched the book half out of his grip. But the moment his claws touched it, something colder than death bit into him–Loca’s voice, whispering into his mind.
I remember you, Lycan.
Francesco snarled and tore his hand back, blood dripping from his palm where the book’s cover had cut into him like teeth
Around him, the warriors fought savagely, but Marsen was more than them now. His movements were wrong, jerky yet impossibly fast, as if Luca’s will was pulling the strings. He caught one wolf in both hands and tore him in half mid–lunge, the sound wet and final. The two halves hit the ground with a sickening slap, steam rising from the torn viscera.
Francesco felt the pull again–magic wrapping around Marsen like chains, but instead of restraining him, it fed him. The air turned heavy, breathing thick with copper and rot.
Then the charm against his chest flared hotter.
It wasn’t just reacting–it was pushing.
He didn’t question it. He threw himself back into the fight, his claws tearing deep into Marsen’s shoulder. This time, the flesh there smoked where he struck, the magic hissing like water on coals. Marsen shrieked, his body recoiling.
“IT’S THE CHARM!” Marlow yelled, realization dawning. “It’s hurting him!”
The warriors rallied, keeping their strikes close to Francesco so the magic in the charm would weaken Marsen each time the Lycan drew near. Still, it was a war of attrition–Marsen’s strength was monstrous, and every blow they landed seemed to cost another life.
A wolf lunged for the book, teeth snapping at the pages. Marsen caught him by the jaw and twisted until the crack of breaking bone echoed through the chamber. He dropped the limp body without a glance.
Francesco’s rage boiled over. He slammed into Marsen with enough force to dent the stone floor, his claws raking and tearing, his teeth sinking deep into corrupted flesh. Black blood sprayed, burning wherever it landed. His muscles screamed, his breath coming in ragged bursts, but he didn’t let go.
The book began to scream–not Marsen, not Luca, but the thing itself, a keening wail that made the torches gutter and nearly die. The circle on the floor flared blindingly bright.
And then-
Light.
Not from fire. Not from magic.
From the entrance.
The warriors froze mid–motion, their ears flicking back toward it. Francesco turned, panting, blood dripping from his claws and muzzle. The light grew brighter, flooding the cavern until even the shadows seemed to cower from it.
And there–framed by it–stood a figure.
White fur glowed under the torchlight, pristine despite the filth of the cave. Eyes like molten silver locked on Marsen. Her presence cut
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through the chaos like the first breath of air after drowning.
The White Woll.
Their Luna.
“Ellaine…?”
Francesco’s heart slammed once, hard, in his chest. She shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t be here. And yet–she was,
Marsen’s red eyes widened.
The book in his hands shuddered violently, as if it recognized her.
The whispering turned to frantic, hissing voices.
And then the ground split beneath them, the circle cracking apart-
-before everything went white.
