The city walls are nothing but a memory now. Stones crumble beneath my boots, moss and wildflowers growing in the cracks where guards once marched. I run my fingers along the faded crest of the Fenris wolf, chipped and half-swallowed by ivy, and wonder if anyone else remembers when this place meant something.
I was born behind these walls—back when people still whispered the Fenris name with respect, or at least with fear. Now the only people who whisper are the ones who pity us, or the ones who want to see if the last of the Fenris will finally break.
A thin wind slips through the gaps in the stone, tugging at my coat. Somewhere, a bell rings—one of the few still working in the city. It's a tired sound. I wonder if anyone else hears it, or if they're all too busy scraping by to notice the city dying around them.
A shadow flickers at the edge of my vision. I tense, but it's only my wolf pup, Fen, trailing behind me with oversized paws and a tongue lolling out. He's not much to look at—just a little bigger than the strays that roam the alleys, with a patchy gray coat and eyes too old for his face. But he's mine. The first and only thing I've ever truly called my own.
I crouch and scratch behind his ears. "You hungry, Fen?" He noses my hand, searching for scraps I don't have. I sigh and straighten, glancing up at the empty watchtower. Once, there'd have been a dozen archers up there. Now, just crows.
I wander the streets, Fen at my heels, passing shuttered shops and broken lanterns. Children with hollow cheeks watch from doorways, their eyes following me with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Every step is a reminder of what we've lost—and how little I have to offer in return.
I pause at the old market square, where weeds push through cracked stone. I remember coming here as a child, my mother's hand warm in mine, the stalls overflowing with food and trinkets. Now, only a few battered carts remain, their owners hawking wilted vegetables and scraps of cloth.
"Lysar!"
I turn. Mira stands at the edge of the square, her face drawn and pale beneath the grime. She doesn't waste time.
"The council demands you—now."
I nod, following her through the winding streets. Fen pads close, sensing my unease. The city feels colder, emptier, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.
We reach the council hall—a relic of better days. Its stone walls are scarred, the wooden floorboards creak beneath my boots. Twelve figures sit in a crescent, their faces etched with worry, exhaustion, and something sharper—fear.
Jarek, the eldest, stands as we enter. His white hair is thin, his posture stooped, but his eyes burn with a fierce, tired light.
"Lysar Fenris," he says, voice low but steady. "News from the border. Your father… he's fallen."
The words hit me like a blow. My breath catches. My mind reels, trying to grasp the weight of it. Fen whines softly at my side, pressing his head against my leg.
Jarek's gaze doesn't waver. "He died in battle, fighting for the Fenris name, for Valeborn. You are the last of the bloodline. By law and oath, the mantle passes to you."
For a moment, the world is silent. I feel the burn before I see it: my tattoo, the old wolf mark on my shoulder, flares with heat. Black lines crawl down my arm, twisting and branching, etching ancient runes and snarling beasts into my skin. The pain is sharp, but I grit my teeth and watch as the ink spreads, covering me from shoulder to wrist in a living tapestry.
The council gasps. One by one, they slide from their chairs, heads bowed low. Even Jarek kneels, his voice barely above a whisper. "All hail the Fenris. The blood accepts you. We are yours to command."
The tattoo pulses, a heartbeat of power under my skin. I know, in that instant, that every oathbound member of this family feels it too. They cannot resist. Even those who hate me are bound by ancient magic to kneel.
I flex my hand, feeling the weight of a hundred years settle on my shoulders. Fen whines softly, pressing against my leg. I look around the chamber—at the fear, the awe, the resentment—and I realize there is no turning back.
I am the Fenris now. And for the first time, they all know it.
Jarek rises slowly, his knees cracking. "There is more. The emperor's messenger arrived this morning." He gestures, and a young scribe steps forward, holding a sealed letter and a small, heavy pouch.
Jarek reads aloud: "'For the sacrifice of Lord Fenris, who gave his life in defense of the imperial blood, the emperor grants this sum to the Fenris family. May it sustain you for a year, in memory and in warning.'"
He places the pouch on the table. It clinks with coins, but I know without counting that it's not enough—not for what we need.
Jarek's eyes meet mine. "It will pay the tax. Nothing more. After that… we are on our own."
A year. That's all the emperor's mercy has bought us. One year to find a way to pay the next tax, to rebuild, to restore the family—or to watch the Fenris name fade into nothing.
The council murmurs, voices low and anxious. I catch snatches of their doubts, their fears. "He's just a boy… What can he do?… The blood accepts him, but will the city?… We need more time…"
I straighten, forcing myself to meet their eyes. "We have a year. That's more than I expected. I'll find a way."
Jarek nods, but his gaze is heavy with doubt. "See that you do, Lysar. The family depends on you now."
The meeting dissolves into whispers and shuffling feet. Mira lingers by the door, her eyes searching my face. "If you need anything…" she begins, but I shake my head.
"I need time. That's all."
She nods, understanding more than I say, and slips away.
I leave the hall, the weight of the mantle pressing down on me. Fen stays close, his eyes bright and watchful. The city is quieter now, the sun sinking behind the broken walls, casting long shadows across the empty streets.
I make my way to the old family shrine, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the manor. Dust motes dance in the fading light, and the air smells of incense and old stone. I kneel before the altar, my tattoo still burning, and try to find the words.
"Father. Grandfather. Ancestors. If you're listening… I don't know if I can do this. But I'll try. I'll try, because there's no one else left."
Fen sits beside me, his head tilted as if he understands. I rest my hand on his back, drawing comfort from his warmth.
That's when it happens.
A sudden, sharp pain lances through my arm, and the world blurs. I gasp, clutching at my tattoo as it pulses with a strange, electric energy. My vision swims, and for a moment, I think I hear a voice—a whisper in the darkness, clear and cold.
SYSTEM INITIALIZING…
The words appear before my eyes, glowing faintly in the air. I blink, and they remain, hovering just out of reach.
User recognized: Lysar Fenris. Bloodline confirmed. System unlocked.
I stare, heart pounding. "What…?"
Welcome, Fenris. You are now the family head. System functions available: Pet Evolution, Status Monitoring, Family Management. Basic AI support online.
A chill runs down my spine. I glance at Fen, who stares back, unblinking. The tattoo on my arm glows brighter, the runes shifting and settling into new patterns.
Would you like a tutorial?
I swallow, trying to steady my breathing. "Yes," I whisper.
Pet Evolution: As family head, you may evolve any Fenris-bonded beast. Requirements: Loyalty tattoo, sufficient training, and emotional bond. Evolution resets pet to level 1, raising the maximum level for the next evolution. Materials may be required for higher evolutions.
Status Monitoring: View the health, loyalty, and potential of all family-bonded beasts. Family Management: Issue commands to all oathbound members. Warning: Loyalty is enforced by blood and magic, but resistance may manifest as sabotage or reluctance.
The words fade, replaced by a simple interface—lists, numbers, names I recognize and some I don't. I feel dizzy, overwhelmed, but also… hopeful.
For the first time, I have something the others don't. Something that might save us.
Fen nudges my hand, his eyes bright and eager. I smile, despite everything.
"We're not done yet," I tell him. "Not by a long shot."
The city is quiet as I leave the shrine, but I feel the weight of history shifting. The ancestors may have left me a ruin, but they also left me this—one last chance.
And I intend to take it.