Ancestral Lineage

"Let's head back and prepare to welcome the Kingdom of Fenrir," Ethan said, rising from the hill, his cloak fluttering gently in the breeze. His golden eyes shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "I have a feeling it's going to be... interesting."

He extended his hand toward Regnare, palm open, steady and firm.

Regnare looked up from where he still sat cross-legged in the soft, fragrant grass. The breeze carried the faint scent of wildflowers and the chirping of unseen birds. He stared at Ethan's hand for a moment—large, calloused, warm. A hand that had pulled him from the abyss more than once.

He reached up, grasping it tightly as Ethan pulled him to his feet.

"I'll stand with you through whatever comes," Regnare said, his voice quiet but resolute.

Ethan gave him a nod, his expression softening. "I know you will. That's what makes you my son."

They turned together, the tall grass parting around them as they descended the hill. Above them, the sky deepened into rich violet and burnt orange, streaked with clouds like smoldering embers—an omen of the dusk that was settling.

An ending. A reckoning.

...

The Nexus Citadel pulsed with energy. A soft hum of enchantments filled the air as the citadel's inner workings responded to the presence of its masters. High above the capital of Antrim, the royal family's residence had become a hive of activity, as word of the Kingdom of Fenrir's imminent arrival spread like wildfire.

Inside the crystalline halls of the Sanctum of Accord, maids with elemental affinities used coordinated magics to polish the floors until they gleamed like water under moonlight. Banners bearing the sigil of Anbord were unfurled, freshly enchanted with runes to shimmer subtly with each passing hour.

In the Hall of Celestial Embrace, a vast throne room reserved for inter-kingdom audiences, artisans and architects toiled under the guidance of the Sentient Constructs, decorating the pillars with flowering vines of living gold and threads of ice-resistant silk. A rare material harvested from the sacred moths of the Frosted Vale, the silk was a symbol of unity between Anbord and the northern regions.

Meanwhile, in the Royal Chambers

Ethan stood before an intricate mirror, one that didn't just reflect appearances but intention, presence, and soul. He ran a hand through his thick, red hair, now streaked with faint lines of silver—a mark of his Saint Form's prolonged use. He wore a long robe of black and gold, simple but majestic, laced with alchemical weaves to resist curses and detect deception.

Trevor, dressed in dark crimson formal wear infused with blood-activated glyphs, leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed. "You're going full diplomacy mode today, huh?"

Ethan smirked. "Only because I can't show up shirtless and glowing with power when greeting a foreign monarch."

"Would send the wrong message," Trevor chuckled. "Or the right one, if you're trying to intimidate them." M*|%V#|LEM+*%PYR is the home+ of t&h%i.s% c.ha%pter

"They're wolves, Trev. Power is a language they respect, but grace… that's what throws them off."

At that moment, Athelia entered, cloaked in radiant silk forged from Spirit Thread, her long silvery-blue hair braided with strands of living crystal. Her presence exuded harmony, her psychic aura anchoring the space around her like a melody sung by the stars.

"The court is ready," she said, her voice echoing slightly with divine resonance. "The Ambassadors from Fenrir have passed through the first gate and are approaching the outer sanctum. Queen Emma of the Duskhaven Pack walks among them."

Ethan's brows lifted slightly. "Queen Emma herself? That's a bold move."

Angithelia gave a soft nod. "She comes with intent. And not just political."

Elsewhere: Regnare's Quarters

Regnare stood before a set of armor tailored just for this occasion—midnight black with deep blue runes pulsing faintly across the surface. It was forged by the royal blacksmiths with their essence blended into the metal. Alchemic plating mixed with ancient dwarven alloy—it was both an armor and an extension of himself.

"Damn, I look good," he muttered, admiring himself in the mirror. Onyx, now in humanoid form with glowing eyes and shadowy tattoos crawling up her arms, walked in silently behind him.

"You clean up well... for a mutt," she teased, but there was affection in her voice.

Regnare grinned. "Says the beast I'm madly in love with."

She rolled her eyes, but a soft blush touched her cheeks. "Come. The wolves approach."

Back in the Sphere of Accord

The royal court stood ready. A wide circular chamber, veiled in light and shadow, with layered balconies where nobles and commanders of the Twelve Kingdoms watched. Ethan stood at the center dais, flanked by his wives, Trevor, Lamair, Reginald, Jerry, and a few of the Sovereigns.

As the massive ethereal gates opened, a cold wind blew in.

And through it walked Queen Emma of Fenrir, clad in white furs, her blue eyes glowing beneath a silver wolf mask. Her entourage moved like wolves in human skin—silent, deadly, noble.

The Kingdom of Fenrir had arrived.

The dance of diplomacy, legacy, and power was about to begin.

...

The entourage from Fenrir moved with a silence as biting as the winds of their frozen homeland. Clad in thick, midnight-blue cloaks lined with silver wolf fur, they advanced in perfect formation, their armored boots crunching softly against the stone paths of the citadel. Each member bore the crest of the Fenrir sigil—a huge wolf encircling a crescent moon—emblazoned in froststeel on their breastplates. Their eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned their surroundings with disciplined calm. At their center strode their emissary, a tall, broad-shouldered man with chocolate-brown skin and hair as white as snow, his presence radiating both nobility and a quiet, yet dangerous, strength. Ice crystals lingered in his breath despite the mild evening air, as if he carried the chill of Fenrir with him wherever he went.

Queen Emma followed behind the entourage with regal grace, her towering presence nearly eclipsing those before her. Draped in a flowing cloak of deep sapphire trimmed with silver-threaded fur, she moved like a glacier—slow, deliberate, and undeniably commanding. Her snow white hair cascaded down her back in thick braids adorned with crystal pins that shimmered like icicles. With each step, the very air around her seemed to cool, her frost-touched aura a silent declaration of her status. Though she walked behind, it was clear she led them all.