Chapter Thirteen: The Witch of Narnish

The scent of ash led them to Narnish.

It was not the smoke of hearth fires or burned wood—but something darker. Bitter. Like scorched marrow. The pack padded forward in silence, paws thudding against the soil still warm from unholy embers. Ethan led, his gait a smooth, haunting stride. He had not spoken much since the crypt battle beneath Tagavishta, but something in the wind had him alert. Restless.

They crested the last hill before the city and froze.

Or what was left of it.

Narnish stood in ruins, its once-golden chapel shattered like glass beneath a black boot. Stone walls scorched with sigils long forgotten, crimson smears upon the cobbled streets, and silence—so profound it pressed on the ears like a scream held back.

"This was done by no fledglings," Rufik growled. His fur bristled as he paced forward, nostrils flaring. "This is a message."

Ethan crouched near a half-burned ward stone, brushing his fingers across the ancient glyphs etched in it. "They desecrated it," he murmured. "Vampires… but not just any kind. Daywalkers, maybe. But this… this reeks of something older."

A shudder passed through the pack. Wolves were not creatures so easily shaken, but Narnish was different. The land was cursed now, defiled with dark rites.

"We search the chapel ruins," Ethan said, rising. "If Helena is alive, she'll be drawn to the place her blood remembers."

---

The chapel groaned as they entered, stone crying underfoot like it mourned. Stained glass lay shattered across the floor like frozen blood. The altar had been split in two, a great claw mark carved through its center.

Rufik snarled low. "There's something beneath."

Ethan felt it too.

A pulse.

Magic.

He knelt beside the broken altar, placing his palm to the floor. A shimmer of blue light coiled under his touch, forming an ancient sigil—one older than the Ordo Nocturne, older than the Blood Courts themselves.

With a whisper, the stone gave way.

They descended into the crypt.

---

The descent was long, the spiral staircase crumbling and narrow. The deeper they went, the colder it grew—not merely in temperature, but in presence. Ethan could feel eyes watching. Memory clinging.

At the base, a chamber opened.

And in its center… a woman knelt.

She was slumped against the far wall, blood crusted along her temple, her cloak in tatters. Her hand held a shard of broken obsidian—a last defense.

Ethan approached slowly. "Helena?"

She stirred.

Eyes, silver-gray like clouded moons, blinked up at him. Her voice was cracked and raw. "You're late."

Ethan allowed himself a breath. "We came as fast as we could."

She smiled faintly, then winced. "They've awakened him."

"Dracula?"

"No." She looked up, fear etched into every wrinkle of her worn face. "Worse. Lord Strahen. The Exiled General."

Rufik froze. "That name is forbidden."

"So was he. Banished by Dracula for raising an army that drank blood and fire. He swore to return when the stars turned red." Helena's voice dropped. "And they have."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"We were fools to think only one monster would rise."

A howl shattered the stillness.

Not one of their own.

Something was coming.

---

The stone above cracked.

Ethan spun, eyes flashing. "To arms."

The pack shifted in an instant. Bones snapped, fur erupted, claws lengthened. Rufik's growl was thunder in the crypt.

Then the roof exploded.

Vampirespawn poured through the breach—twisted things, once-human, now warped by Strahen's magic. Their mouths gaped with rows of black teeth. Their eyes glowed yellow with the madness of blood hunger.

Ethan met the first with a snarl, half-shifting, his claws erupting through flesh and bone. He moved like a storm—vampiric speed blurring his form, werewolf strength fueling his strikes. One spawn lunged for Helena—Ethan caught it mid-air, slammed it into the stone, and ripped out its throat.

Rufik tore another in half.

The crypt filled with roars and shrieks.

Blood sprayed the walls.

One of the younger wolves was pinned by two spawn—Ethan was there in a flash, hurling one across the crypt and dragging the other off by its spine.

Helena chanted through the chaos—her blood igniting with ancestral fire. Glyphs lit the crypt walls, burning holy symbols into the air.

The spawn screamed, smoke rising from their skin.

Rufik howled. "Together!"

The wolves surged.

Ethan, now fully Half-Born, shone like midnight fire. He was everywhere—blades of claw and fang and shadow. He moved faster than thought, tearing into the creatures with precision and rage.

Within a few minutes, the crypt was silent once more.

Breathing heavy, Ethan looked around. Bodies lay scattered. The stench of rot and sulfur burned their lungs.

But they had won.

Helena collapsed.

Ethan caught her. "We need her alive. She knows how to stop them."

She opened her eyes. "I know more than that. I know how to find the blade that can kill Strahen. But it lies in the Forest of the Dead."

Rufik growled low. "That place hasn't been walked in a century."

"Then it's time we changed that."

Ethan looked up, blood running down his face. "We move before nightfall."

Outside, the storm rolled over Narnish, and the howl of something not quite living echoed in the distance.

The war had truly begun.

----

A cold wind slipped through the shattered crypt, curling like a serpent around their ankles. No one spoke. Even the youngest of the pack—bloodied, breathless—knew this moment marked a turning.

Helena leaned against Ethan, her voice barely audible. "They won't stop now. Strahen's spawn were just the first wave."

"Then we kill the next," Rufik growled.

Ethan's gaze stayed fixed on the broken ceiling above. "Not unless we're ready. He's not just waking armies—he's waking the land. You felt it, didn't you? The pulse."

Helena nodded slowly. "The earth remembers him. The soil in these lands was once fed by his fire. He's not like Dracula. He doesn't rule with fear. He burns. And those who follow him… worship the flame."

A silence followed, heavy and grim.

Ethan turned to the others, his voice low but steady. "We head west. The Forest of the Dead won't welcome us, but the blade's our only chance."

"And if it's a lie?" one of the wolves asked.

Helena looked at them, something fierce in her ruined eyes. "Then we die on our feet. Not in a crypt."

Above them, lightning cracked.

Beneath, the dead whispered.

And so they climbed, one by one, into the storm.