Warbonded

Werewolf Citadel, Throne Room of House Blackmaw

...

The Citadel stank of sweat, scorched steel, and denial.

Klaus stood at the center of the throne room, arms crossed over his chest, boots planted wide on the obsidian tiles. He was soaked in the scent of war — dried blood, rain, and the cloying tang of ozone. Around him, the room buzzed with the rustle of robes and quiet muttering from the Alpha’s council. They avoided his gaze. Cowards. All of them.

At the head of the room, lounging on his blackthorn throne as if nothing bled in the world beyond these walls, sat the Alpha, Malzan.

"You would have me panic over ghost stories," Malzan said, voice thick with disdain. "We’ve faced vampire raids before, Beta. And we crushed them."

Klaus’s molars ground together with a force that would’ve cracked human bone. “This isn’t a raid,” he growled, barely holding back the wolf in his throat. “This is systematic, coordinated, it's been calculated. Outposts are going dark. Entire packs wiped. We haven’t heard from The Watchers in four days.”

Malzan lifted a goblet lazily, swirling its crimson contents. “Perhaps they grew tired of your endless doom prophecies and fled.”

There was a soft chuckle from one of the Alpha's many bootlickers. Klaus turned his head sharply, and the laughter died with a swallowed gulp.

He took a step forward. “You think this is a game. That we’re untouchable because of our walls and wards. But they’re testing us, Malzan. Studying us. Picking off the weak and isolated first.”

Malzan didn’t even look at him now — he was too busy admiring his own reflection in the bloodwine.

The rage in Klaus’s chest boiled into something cold. Damn the Alpha. Damn his arrogance, his ancient glory, his obsession with clinging to the old ways while their enemies evolved.

“They have a new leader,” Klaus said, voice like flint on steel. “Name’s whispered in every blood-soaked corner we still have ears in. Moloch.”

That got their attention.

Malzan lowered his cup. His eyes, ice-grey and pitiless, finally met Klaus’s. “We’ve had dozens of ‘new leaders’ over the centuries. They burn. They fall. We remain.”

Klaus’s claws ached to unsheath.

“Moloch is different.”

“Based on what?” the High Shaman hissed, lifting his wrinkled hands. “Rumors? Feral mutterings from dying scouts? Do you not smell the desperation in your own voice, Beta?”

“I smell death,” Klaus snapped. “And it’s crawling up our walls while you all sit here drinking and jerking off your own shadows.”

A growl rippled through the room. Malzan's personal guards stood, bristling.Growls rumbled like lightning in the room.

Malzan remained seated, but his power flared, subtle yet dangerous. Klaus felt the invisible hand of dominance trying to press him to his knees.

He didn’t budge.

Instead, he said quietly, “How many more provinces need to fall before you act?”

The silence was thunderous.

“Enough,” Malzan said. He rose slowly, stretching, as if bored by the entire affair. “We will double