Chapter 526: Granted Escape
With the Berserker’s Muzzle unable to suppress Arkai’s rampage, they turned to the traditional way of beasts stopping another rampaging beast. The oldest method and the simplest...
Knock him unconscious.
"We need to put him down before he hurts himself," Eastiel said. His golden eyes were fixed on his thrashing and wailing brother, calculating angles and force and the precise amount of blunt trauma required to subdue a fully-grown werewolf, the Black Wolf King at that, without causing permanent damage.
"A strike to the head. The Dawnoro wolves can pin his hindquarters. I’ll take the left flank. Your Majesty, you—"
"Wait." Oathran raised one hand, and the wolves who had been tensing to carry out Eastiel’s plan froze mid-motion. "Let me try my Dragon Tongue first."
Eastiel’s eyes widened. The Dragon Tongue, the authority of the Dragon Lord, the magic that spoken laws into existence. To beasts, hearing the Dragon Tongue was to remember, in the deepest marrow of your bones, who the lord of lords truly was.
"Yes, Brother," Eastiel said quietly. He actually didn’t know that Dragon Tongue could be that powerful.
Oathran took a deep breath. His smaller dragon form was still and focused and his grey eyes locked on the thrashing black wolf below him.
The Dawnoro werewolves, still gripping Arkai’s limbs, felt the shift in the air before the word even came, an expectation that pressed down on their shoulders like the hand of a god. Oathran opened his mouth and spoke.
"Sleep."
He didn’t sound it out loud. It was not harsh either. Just... absolute.
The authority of the Dragon Lord resonated through the courtyard like a bell struck once, and everyone felt it.
The Dawnoro wolves trembled. Their grips on Arkai loosened as their own bodies fought the command, their instincts screaming at them to obey even though the word had not been meant for them.
Eastiel’s lion ears pressed flat against his skull, his breath catching in his throat. Even Cecilia, standing a few feet away, felt the word ripple through her chest. It felt like a sin not to obey. It felt like the world would bend to ensure the command was fulfilled.
But it didn’t work.
GRRRRRRAH! ARF—RAAAHHROOOO!!!
Arkai’s howl tore through the courtyard like a battle cry.
The Dawnoro wolves trembled, their bodies caught in an impossible war of instincts.
The Dragon Lord had commanded them to sleep, and every ancient bone in their bodies screamed to obey. But their Alpha was howling with the fury of a king who would burn the world before yielding.
Never in their lives had they imagined trembling against two orders at once. One that bid them to lie down and rest, and one that called forth the spirit of war itself.
If it felt like a sin not to obey the Dragon Lord, it felt like facing the king of hell not to answer the howl of their Alpha.
"For someone who lives with control all his life, you are quite a tough one once you lose it," Oathran scoffed, his grey eyes narrowing at the thrashing black wolf.
There was no anger in his voice. Just a cold, appraising respect. Arkai, who had spent decades mastering himself, his emotions, his unwanted rut, every situation he had ever walked into... now that control had shattered, he was nearly unstoppable.
The Dragon thought it over. Perhaps he needed a better approach.
"You seem to just want to run away," he said, his voice resonating with the full authority of the Dragon Tongue.
That was when his voice dropped, gentler now but no less absolute.
"Then just run to your dreams. Leave your body with us."
***
Roarke sat at his worn wooden desk, the sleeves of his plain healer’s robes rolled up to his elbows, a quill in his hand and a ledger of medicinal plants spread open before him.
The candle at his elbow had burned low, its flame guttering in the faint draft from the window, but he barely noticed.
His handwriting was precise, perhaps reflecting the assassin he was, each entry cataloguing the herbs he had restocked that week, alongside careful notes on their potency and preparation.
Thankfully, Arkai did hand him a few recipe notes for the medicine he carried from the Luna. That was how he got out of Arzhen’s situation.
Right now, Arzhen’s demand was still complicating things. But it wasn’t too bad.
That was when he heard a soft knock at the door. Three quick raps, then two slower ones. The signal.
"Enter," Roarke said without looking up.
The door creaked open, and Bimo slipped inside. The twelve-year-old moved, his dark hair still mussed from sleep, his young face uncommonly serious.
"Father Rohan," Bimo said. "The Dawnoro capital estate sent word. They’re summoning you. Immediately."
Roarke’s quill stopped mid-stroke. A drop of ink bled onto the page. He looked up, his eyes widening with alarm.
The Dawnoro capital estate.
After the winter solstice, Arkai had finally spoken to him like they had returned to those days. But then he returned to his mission. Arkai wasn’t the only one he wanted to return to.
But now they were summoning him urgently, in the middle of the night?
"Did they say what happened?" Roarke asked, already rising from his chair.
Bimo shook his head. "Only that it was urgent."
Roarke felt a twinge of worry.
What could be the reason...?
The Luna had never called him this way before. If she was summoning him urgently without considering his position, something had gone terribly wrong.
He changed quickly, shedding the plain healer’s robes for dark, practical clothes that wouldn’t catch the moonlight.
He locked the door behind him after Bimo slipped away, then crossed to the window. He moved through the temple grounds like a shadow and was over the wall and into the city streets before the candle in his room had finished guttering out.
He arrived at the capital residence as quickly as his legs could carry him.
Only to see the mess in the courtyard.
The shattered fountain... the gouged cobblestones... the splintered double doors hanging crooked from their hinges.
His eyes faltered.
Did... something attacked them...?
Rinne—Arkai! Are they alright—?