Rule of his home had been taken away, to each corner all he saw were the corpses of his people, destroyed buildings and the fires consuming it all. Screams were all that could be heard, together with the storm. The lightning bolts kept raining down. All Arcail could hope for was not to be the next target.

He fled from his burning home with his half-broken leg, grasping on the trees to keep up. Standing idly was sure death, as had been so cruelly showcased earlier, yet a break to rest seemed more attractive by the minute.

The smoke burned his nose and lungs, yet the deep breaths kept coming. Running on four legs was impossible with the deplorable state his right arm was in. While not a single scenario popped on his mind where he would survive, the instinct to flee from danger forced his muscles to act. That night Arcail learned there is no better motivator than fear.

Thunders roaring in the skies were enough to make one of his kind deaf. He recalled to his younger days as a pup where nothing felt as tormenting as the infernal storms. Arcail smirked softly, now knowing what true despair was., but what laid in the skies was something else.

They didn’t deserve such terrible deaths. His father, mother and so many brothers and sisters, all gone. What is it that his people had done for this to happen to them? It was true they were far from a peaceful race, yet for such atrocities to be committed Arcail could not muster any excuses. It was a genocide of the greatest order.

The distance to the tribe got far enough. Some time to breath and relax was essential if he planned to keep going indefinitely. He leaned against the oak tree, rubbing his furs and tail against the bushes beside it. Given the moment to think, perhaps there was something, some way he could get himself out alive. The Romans couldn’t possibly hope to eliminate everyone, even if they had no remorse in killing young ones like him. To ask for clemency was being foolish, however ideal.

The elders had taught him about the principles of war, but there never was an opportunity to participate in a raid or even join the legions as an Auxiliary, as his elder brother had done. But now, the mere idea of fighting beside the Romans was beyond disgusting. It would be heartbreaking to see Litchios among their ranks, to say the least.

“… What the…” Arcail whispered to himself, noticing the arrow lodged in his left thigh. The adrenaline in his veins decreased and the pain from the obvious wound was unsuppressed. He tore the arrow out, howling in pain like a puppy. Now not only could he not run, but walking would be a challenge on itself. He should have let the arrow in, but it was too late to regret it.

He had heard tales from the land of the Romans, where they had water that cured wounds and magic that could do the same. They all sounded like things weak men would rely on, yet they were on the top of the list of things he desired the most now. His wounds burned as much as his home did, and to have at least one of them extinguished would already be a wish fulfilled. Truly, a life of peace and tranquility wouldn’t be so outrageous a concept.

The rain finally began pouring. The storm had been quickly assembled, but it was only a matter of time. The small amount of water in each drop did their best to extinguish the blazes, to little avail. Poetry was as a foreign custom to his people as it could be, yet some Roman books made their way to them by travelers and traders. Litchios enjoyed telling tales from such books, stories of war and conquest. They sounded much better when his own people weren’t the ones being conquered.

Arcail recovered some stamina, however little. The pain grew fainter and his hope began to grow back on him.

“There’s a small one over there.”

His heart pounded his chest. Arcail turned as far as his neck would allow. Three legionnaires were staring at him with their blood-soaked swords. Beside them was a freshly killed Lupus, an adult, and warrior on his prime. It was impossible to make out which race they were under their all-encompassing armor sets. Arcail could not count on exploiting any of the little hunting knowledge he had.

“He’s injured.” The legionnaires to the left said, “He won’t be escaping us.”

The walked towards him, non-concerned yet focused. Arcail got on his feet before they could corner his escape. He wouldn’t have to have learned Latin from his brother to understand what his enemies intended.

“Don’t think so.” The legionnaire said, throwing a fireball right out of his fingertips, setting the escape path on fire. It became evident not only Arcail was outnumbered, but severely outmatched. Not only did he not know any of the magic schools, but he had nothing on how to counter them. A fight would mean sure death. He considered the possibility of jumping into the fire, running away as fast as possible. It was an alternative with a better probability of success to face his current opponents.

He hesitated. His furs would offer great burning material which he could not put out without jumping into a river, and the nearest one was back in the village, where the main Roman force was. As fate would demand it, Arcail would die with his people, but not at all willingly. Doing a full turn, he stared the roman’s visor, calling for a duel.

“It’s just a kid, but it still wants a fight…” the legionnaire stepped away from his companions, “Let’s entertain this barbarian, if only as a courtesy.”

It would seem the one at the center accepted his challenge. Perhaps he could injure the soldier enough to make the others take him back for treatment. It was a desperate hope, but it was something.

“Halt Lucius, look at his eyes.” Said the soldier watching.

He looked deep into Arcail’s pupils, “They are as red as his people’s blood, but what of it?”

“Black fur, red eyes, and he looks to have withstood quite a lot of damage already.”

“… Are you saying…”

The soldier stepped sideways as he glanced at his companion. At his waist, there was a red glass, strapped tightly to his vestments. Could it be the healing potion he had heard of? It would make sense for someone like him to hold one. Arcail took a deep breath, his chances of survival increased tenfold. If he could get a grasp of that drink, he could rush his way out. His objective was clear.

“It’s an Alpha Lupus.” He said, “They are out prime targets in this campaign.”

“What a great find!” shouted the lone soldier, “Our centurion will be delighted when we return with the beast’s head.”

“Just kill him already.” Said the other legionnaire, who was quiet until now, “If you keep giving him a chance to think about something, he might get away.”

“He’s right, just try not to damage the head beyond recognition.”

“Yeah, I get it.” The duelist said, “Of course, there is someone else we need to try to impress today.”

The way he pointed his gladius at Arcail was a sure indicator he was ready to fight. The young Alpha Lupus stretched his legs, expecting for an attack to defend. Taking the initiative was not an option.

“If you won’t start it, then I will!” the legionnaire charged, swinging his blade and going for a stab. Arcail rolled out of the way, quickly jumping on his enemy’s back and biting his neck.

“Why you… Get off!” he knocked him away with a hit from his elbow, sending him rolling away to another tree.

Arcail sneered, coffing blood. The armored soldier was far too protected to go down with a strategy made only to hunt down deer. If he could not in anyway hope to seriously damage him, to steal the potion and a runoff was the way to go. His current state, however, made any long and drawn out hit and run tactic impossible. His next charge would be his last before collapsing, that he could clearly feel.

“Perhaps if you had been a little older, your teeth could have gone through the plates. Growing old, however, is not an opportunity you will have.”

The legionnaire went for another attack, clearly intended in slashing this time. Arcail stood still until the blade was a meter away. He dropped, propelling himself away to the soldier’s back, quickly stealing his potion.

“Wait… You little thief!” shouted the soldier. Those were the only words so far Arcail did not doubt the meaning off.

“My, he stole your healing potion!” said the spectator, “If he heals back up, we might need to intervene.”

“You will do no such thing; this kill is mine.” Said the dueling legionnaire with great fury.

His enemy’s tone had only gotten more threatening as the fight evolved. It would be best not to count him waiting. The Lupus tore the potion’s seal open, and as he was about to drink it, a loud “Die!” sounded. Another fireball, bigger than the previous one was launched at him. It came at such speed and intensity there was little to be done. It hit his legs as he jumped away, burning his wounds terribly. Arcail fell, dropping the potion, breaking it. Its red essence dispersed on the grass, a wasted opportunity. The only one the young Lupus had been awarded. His only hope of survival gone, and the pain quickly overtaking any rational thought, Arcail let himself lay on the floor, defeated and broken.

“What a persistent dog.” Said the legionnaire. He put his left hand onto his gladius, reading for a deep thrust, “Do yourself a favor and let your head come off cleanly.”

The blade went for the mortal strike, stopped by an instinctive grasp with his one good arm. Arcail had stopped the attack from going at his neck, at the cost of seriously wounding his left palm. It was pure stubbornness, yet he found that if his body could still allow, he would fight for the right to live a few moments more.

“Ugh… A really persistent dog…”

He forced the gladius down, making slow progress in approaching the blade to the target. One slip up was all it would take. A single moment of weakness in his arm would be the end. As these thoughts filled his mind, the gladius reached his neck. At the pain of contact, the last shreds of strength still left in him made their contribution. He pushed the blade upwards, cutting his skin to his chin, then his mouth, cheek, and the eye. With a howl of torment, he pushed the blade further, forcing it to land on the grass and inches away from his head.

“I told you not to damage it.” The spectator said, “If you cut the other eye out, we won’t be able to prove he is an Alpha Lupus.”

“Right, I got this.”

The legionnaire eyed at the half-dead Lupus, “That was a brave effort, but all it did was prolong your suffering.” He picked the blade up, preparing for a second go.

Arcail’s right hand had been broken from the initial attack, his left arm cut open with a deep wound, his legs burned and face scared. At that split second, death did not seem that bad a thing. Whatever will of survival had pushed him this far, it would not go any longer. Starring at the man who would soon deliver his death, the young Lupus closed his right eye.

“Good, now…”

“Wait, did you hear that?” said the legionnaire in the distance, looking into the woods. Something moved at an even closer distance, and he seemed to be the only one to notice.

The executioner stopped his gladius, “Hear what?” he asked, infuriated at the interruption.

“There was something moving in the…” he stopped for a brief second, pointing to the legionnaire, “B-Behind you!”

It was too late by then. The Legionnaire was tackled and mauled limb from limb by the dark beast. His victim screamed, prompting Arcail to open the one eye he could. A lupus was gouging at the roman, yet he wore armor extremally like theirs, apart from the helmet. There was only one who could fit that description.

“L-Litchios?” Arcail asked, speaking in their own tongue.

The Lupus turned away from the corpse he had dismembered, flesh hanging from his teeth and blood flowing on his maw. Their red eyes met to make for a moment of joy amidst such darkness. He neared, taking notice of Arcail’s wounded, yet not mortally so body.

“Wait here,” Litchios said, in his deep voice he couldn’t help but not hide the ferocity of. He spoke as seriously as the situation demanded, not a shred of doubt in his tone. He faced the other Legionnaires, extending his fangs.

“L-UCIUS!” the legionnaire shouted, drawing his gladius and glancing at the killer, “… Fucking dog… I know you. You were part of the 20th’s auxiliary force. No wonder a barbarian like you would betray the Empire.”

The two Romans left lit their palms in lightning and ice, ready to cast the strongest Obliteration Spell they could. A bolt of electricity along with a sharp icy spike was thrown at the adult Alpha Lupus. With the clear hit, Litchios easily endured the attacks, spreading away the shock or breaking the spear upon impact on his chest plate. The romans gruntled in disbelief, yet no time was allotted for them to react, much less try again. Litchios grasped their necks after a rush, throwing them down and tearing their throats off. His fangs went deep, carving them apart. Their armors shrieked with metal as their pieces were dispersed, filthy with their user’s blood.

He stared at their corpses, melancholy and with just the smallest hint of remorse in his narrow eyes and low shoulders. Litchios kneeled, searching upon the supply bag of the soldiers. On them, there was a potion of health, among other items typical of a legionnaire.

“You are going to be fine.”

He took the young Lupus on his arms, dropping the potion down his mouth. The effects were instant, yet the pain and wounds slowly healed. It was possible once more to stand. Arcail pushed away Litchios with all his force, running off a small distance.

“Why?” he asked angrily, “Why did you join them?”

Arcail recognized Litchios was the reason he was still alive, yet the thoughts which clouded his mind came out all at once at the first opportunity. Litchios had served in the Empire for many years now, which was exactly why it was impossible to simply reconcile him with what had happened.

“Did you know this would happen? Did you take any part in it? Do you plan to sell me as a prisoner?”

Litchios stared blankly into Arcail, uttering not a word for a long moment.

“Answer me!” shouted Arcail, stepping up with his now recovered leg.

“It’s a complicated thing…” Litchios said, “There was little I could do once I heard of the declaration of war.”

“Bullshit.” Arcail spat out, “You could have warned us! If you had done so, father, mother, and all of our brothers and sisters would still…”

He lowered his head, unable to say out loud what was next. Looking at the ground, trying not to make his feelings more visible than they already were. To have seen such a carnage was not something he would ever forget. There were still howls coming out from the forest, surely more of his people being put to the sword. He managed just enough strength not to lose right then and there, but it wasn’t the same for his brother. A drop of water reached the still unburnt grass, right was Arcail had been staring. Glancing back up, it was clear it wasn’t the rain, but a tear of comprehension. He was hugged by Litchios, his head pressing against his blood-filled armor.

“I understand if you cannot forgive me.” Said Litchios, “But this is not a time to talk. We must get away. Very far away.”

Arcail saw the sorrow in Litchios eyes. It became evident it was not his intention for any of this to have happened. His armor might have been roman, but there was still a Lupus inside it.

“… I’m sorry brother, I was just…”

“Don’t worry.” Litchis quickly replied, string onto Arcail’s closed left eye, “Your eye should heal soon, but I’m afraid the scar will stay.”

“I don’t mind it…” He said, touching his scar, “Where will we go?”

“We have to inform the other wolf packs.” Litchios said, “If the empire had attacked us, they must intend in conquering the entire north.”

“But… We can we do about?” Arcail asked, “Didn’t you say the empire was the strongest nation in the world? How can we hope to defeat them?”

“I don’t know.” The elder said, “There might be another way to settle this. We will think about it when…”

Litchios’ ears lifted. He looked into the deep eerie forest, “… Dammit, we need to go. Now!”

He grabbed Arcail, rushing out in the opposite direction of the identified sound. The three branches hit against him, breaking apart. He unhesitatingly threw themselves where the fires raged.

“What are you doing?” asked Arcail, “This part of the forest is on fire!”

They jumped from tree to tree, propelling themselves away at an accelerating speed only Alpha Lupus of Litchios’ caliber could accomplish.

“Keep quiet.” Litchios tried to whisper nervously, “He will hear you.”

With the utmost seriousness in his tone, the younger brother instinctively abided by his elder’s command. With a faint, almost inaudible volume he asked “Who will? Another legionnaire?”

“No, it’s the…”

A fireball, a magnitude larger than anything else casted until now hit their path. The fires incinerated the trees and knocked Litchios out of his momentum. He crashed onto another one, falling with Arcail still with him. Both coffing and groaned from the pain of impact. Arcail would have been severely damaged, let alone dead were Litchios not there to take the brunt of it.

“A-Are you okay?” asked Arcail, “What was that fire from just now? Didn’t you say it wasn’t a legionnaire?”

Litchios got back in his feet, shaking his head and regaining conscience, “I… That…” he starred at the burning hell zone which had been recently added to the forest. His ear flipped upward once more, and his terrified look was ever cleared to Arcail, even underneath the helmet.

“… Run away, as far as you can.” Litchios said, “And don’t you even think of looking back.”

At the unexpected order, Arcail couldn’t help but protest, “Run away? Do you mean without you?”

“Get out of here!” he screamed, clearly violating his own request not to raise their voices. Such change in strategy said much about how dire the situation had become.

“But… Litchios, what are you going to…”

Litchios grabbed Arcail by the canine collar, throwing him way back onto some bushes. It wasn’t with enough force to cause any serious damage beyond a few bruises.

“Ugh… What are you…”

As Arcail looked back into his brother, he saw him staring into the flames set by the previous spell. He was not at all bothered with Arcail current situation.

Now that he was paying closer attention, he did hear something from the flames beyond their consuming blazes. There was something, or something stepping through them. As the imminent threat loomed, Arcail pondered whether to do as he was asked and flee. If his brother feared the challenger, then it would be prudent to do so.

“… No.” he told himself. Litchios was his last family member, the only one of his blood still alive. To abandon him in such a dire moment was unthinkable, no matter what his orders were. He hid on the bush, watching over from a distance and ready to intervene if it was necessary.

The silhouette of a man came out of the fires. As he stepped out, nothing seemed to make sense. He wore an entirely different armor set than the other Romans, yet he was without a doubt a legionnaire of some kind. His Helmet had the galea like the others. His dark purple armor plates bared the empire’s eagle and every detail of the set hinted at him being a rank above the rest. He did not have his gladius drawn, neither his scutum. The legionnaire did not seem at all conflicted with Litchios’ aggressive stance. At his seemed confidence, a chill was sent through Arcail’s spine, doubtful of who or what this being could be.

Litchios trembled at the roman’s arrival. Never had Arcail seen his veteran elder brother afraid of anything. He was a battle-hardened Alpha Lupus, an elite among his people and, given their long lifespans, he could become one of the strongest beings in the world. Who was it then that scared him so? His enemy was no dragon, no vampire lord, nor was it any of the other creatures the elders spoke off. He was most likely a human, yet an aura unlike any other surrounded him.

The roman lifted his arm, flicking his fingers and with that extinguishing the fires instantly. The mood shifted from a hell zone to a dark forest as the lights vanished. Given the storm, the clouds blocked any light from the moon, yet their night visions as Lupus were enough to see clearly. Was it the same for the roman? Why had he extinguished his own flames?

A ball of light appeared in his hands, which he threw upward. It shined as if a second sun, while none dared to speak. The tension in the air was palpable. It had seemed that nothing would have come out of it until more Romans came out of the forest. An entire century of regular legionnaires surrounded the area. No, not just a century, but an entire legion. Their ranks expanded far into the woods. They extended their shields, setting a perimeter with a tight, organized formation. They left a small passage from where one of them passed.

A legionnaire clothed in similar armor to the dark purple legionnaire got to his side. After staring at Litchios, he patted his companion’s back, whispering something into his ear. Arcail had easily heard yet could not understand. It was a completely different language from anything he had ever heard. It was certainly not Latin, or anything close to the Lupus’ tongue. Litchios’ red pupil widened as he most likely not only also heard but might have understood some. Whatever exchange the Romans had, it was for naught. The man listening waved off the one who talked in a dismissive manner, approaching Litchios with slow steps. The authority he exerted could only mean he was a leader of the Romans.

At the unavoidable slash, Litchios bit his lips and charged the roman. His claw was stopped midair and he was punched away. The sheer force of his attack sent Litchios flying to collided against the rocks. He coughed blood on impact, placing his hand over the burst chest-plate. That single attack was enough not only to pierce it, but to grievously wound his abdomen.

Arcail moved on his bush. The sound was not enough for the roman to hear, yet it was the contrary for a Lupus. Litchios glared at his younger brother who watched the fight, narrowing his eyes in both anger and pity. Getting up, the Alpha Lupus walked back to the Roman. His shrieking muscles and the horrid position was evidence of his utter deplorable physical state. He did not plan to win if only to stand in the way. Arcail now began to understand this last stand was his entire fault. He wanted to jump in like nothing else, but to what purpose? It was sure death to intervene.

Litchios stood in front of Arcail, a few meters of distance. Taking heavy breaths, he charges the roman once more. A final attack. Arcail’s despair grew ten-fold at what was next.

The gladius went deep through the opening in Litchios’ chest. What leftover blood he had in the lungs was quickly coffed out as he fell. His body hit the ground, still alive, if only barely. Litchios was on the brink of death and it seemed nothing would stop the roman from finishing the kill. Arcail got out of the bush, furiously with tears on his eyes running on four legs to save his brother.

At the height of his despair, he was frozen on spot. His muscles stopped obeying his command as the dark purple roman casted some wicked spell. It shone in green as summoned an aura enveloping Arcail’s body.

“Foolish.” Said the roman in Latin. His voice was deep and imperative, somber and distant. The roman , in one moment, destroyed what little faith Arcail still had.

His brother’s neck was cut open by a second strike, splashing blood on the grass. The greatest warrior of the tribe, as well as Arcail’s only family left, was dead. As he stared onto the corpse, the one that had so recently hugged him, he screamed as loud as he could. A resentful howl of sorrow. A disbelief of what had happened, an unwillingness to accept it. The roman let go of the spell, allowing Arcail to grief. He hugged his brother’s body, without a care in the world his killer was still there. He regretted all his doubts from before, only wishing the last moments he had with him had been more pleasant.

The roman was little bothered by the incident, acknowledging Arcail’s presence yet unquestioned on how to respond. As the blade went for a fatal strike, Arcail reflected on how all he experienced today was pure suffering, far too much to desire to keep going. As the roman’s arm was held back by his companion.

Visible confusion on all present, the only one who was sure of what was going on was the other roman, who sternly discussed with Litchios’ killer. Their language was still completely undecipherable. Whoever the second roman was, he must have been close with the leader. The debate went on for a while, resulting in the dark purple legionnaire lowering his arm and sheaving his weapon. Instead of cutting him down, the roman stared onto him. The roman pointed to Arcail, adding onto what was being previously being talked over in their mysterious language. The frightening purple lights emanating from his visor taught the young Lupus of what meant to truly fear someone.

He was being allowed to live, for watch reason he did not know. And truly did not care. His overwhelming hatred for that man, the evil Roman who killed his brother was all he could muster to think on. His rage was only put in check by his fear weakness and the thought of him dying right then and there would be the last thing Litchios would have wanted.

His companion lowered his arm once more, pushing him away from the scene. He had been saved, yet for what reason or purpose there was no way to tell. They returned to the way they had come from. The roman who had apparently saved Arcail walked beside the one who took his brother’s life. He could not understand what had been discussed between them, but what truly filled his thoughts was his current loss. Their legionnaires followed them out, leaving the only survivor to his fate. The light ball from the roman’s spell strayed further, leaving Arcail in darkness.

He was alone. Not a soul in this world to call family, not one goal to achieve or interest to peruse. To have grown up with his kin and eventually follow up in his elder brother’s path was not possible anymore. His only ever interest, taken away.

The clouds opened a portion of the night sky, allowing some of the lunar light to pass. As Arcail looked up, his damaged left eye slowly opened, reflecting on the moon as they gleamed with a new conviction. If fate was to conspire and steal his life from him, he would forge a new path. He would never again give up on life so easily, now knowing it’s precious value and ease of loss. He now had a purpose only he could fulfill, and failure was not an option. Arcail would have his revenge.