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Zakhar looked up from his position amongst the boulders that surrounded the small island upon which Bain & Hoyle’s castle sat. The granite walls rose above him some five stories, ending in the battlements that crested their peak. Even higher still rose the keep, and the massive tower that housed the private residences of Bain and Hoyle. In the dim light of the coming night, the castle seemed menacing and imposing; a structure that symbolized power and a sense of almost palpable impregnability.

The werewolf felt respect for this power, and knew that the castle didn’t exude its prowess falsely. It was warded by powerful spells and totems, and guarded by ferocious and mighty beings. Inside of these walls Bain and Hoyle had shaped and changed the world for almost a half-a-millennium. Only twice since its construction had the castle been attacked, and both times its assaulters had failed. 

In spite of this, Zakhar felt no fear. Only the tight hum of a mind occupied upon the imminent gravity of the present filled his head. He was a warrior, born and bred from generations of the violent and cunning packs of the [i]Logovo Severnogo Vetra[/i]—The Den of the North Wind. A death upon the field of battle, in service to his pack mates and to the Lupus Naturae, was his spoken desire. And what a glorious end he would see, with the return of the god-wolf, Fenris, and the destruction of all the heretics that dared to dilute the ancient bloodlines. 

[i]But my death will not come this day,[/i] he thought, [i]to many must still yet die before I return home.[/i]

Zakhar turned his head, his jaws snapping lightly, as the Reddick brothers stepped beside him. Each of the brothers was smaller than he, and they possessed a more lithe build of cable-like muscles. Their coats were a muddy brown, and their eyes were a dull orange when compared to the bright, silvery-blue of his own. He did not like the Reddick brothers, but that mattered not at all in the grand scheme. The pair of them were wily and stealthy, wolves of the shadows, and masters of infiltration. At the moment that was all Zakhar needed. 

“Are we ready?” said Bodum, the oldest of the two, and the one with the missing top-right canine. He spoke in a thick North Northern Scottish accent that Zakhar had to play back through his head to fully understand.

“Aye,” said the other brother, Kade. “Let’s get this over with.”

Zakhar looked between the two wolves and licked with repressed annoyance at his long fangs. 

“We will be ready when your pack-mates send their signal, and not before. These are your brethren we’re waiting on, so don’t burden me with your impatience.”

The brothers grumbled, but did not reply openly. Instead the three of them crouched into the tidal pools and pulled their strangely woven cloaks tighter around their bodies. As it was, no one could see the intricate pattern of cloth that covered them, as it was this very cloth that prevented them from being visible to any and all eyes. This included the many forms of magical vision so prevalent among the creatures of the Veiled World. 

These cloaks, known as Wraithcloth, had been provided by the Ice Queen. A gift to ensure the successful fulfillment of their mission. From what little Zakhar knew of it, Wraithcloth was woven by woodland elves somewhere in the wilds of Asia, though he knew not where. It was imbedded and infused with so many wards that no known magical countermeasure had been discovered to pierce its cloaking effect. The only reason that the three wolves could see each other at all was the small painted runes below each of their eyes. He had heard that the eyes of a god were the only ones capable of seeing through the Wraithcloth, but Zakhar had little worry about encountering one in these walls. The various gods were so disinterested in the machinations of the lower creatures. 

That would change quickly however. When the god-wolf was set free, and the events that would follow came to pass, the gods would pay attention… and watch the world erupt before their divine eyes.
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