“It seems they were here.” Hadrius tilts his head heavenwards, studying the faint crowding of dark clouds. His nostrils flare mildly as he inhales and lowers his gaze back to the path set before them.

A village had been massacred— and it was not by his men.

The buildings are delapitated structures that remain standing through faith and decaying pillars, blood sleek across earth crusted walls and soil as though someone had done it deliberately. He drags a thoughtful finger through the dirt and lifts it to his nose, taking a short whiff before licking the sand, sucking his finger thoughtfully.

It tastes familiar, of dirt and rustic blood yet underneath lies a subtle undertone of fur.

The taste of something putrid… rotten… nonhuman.

It is neither the wolves nor is it the vampires.

Hadrius gathers a fistful of the coarse sand and straightens, watching as the contents slip from between his fingers. “Any survivors?”

Dante shifts from behind, casting a steady, critical stare over the quiet land. Faint wisps of smoke still rise from dying fire hearths within the homes and dried laundry billows desolately on the lines.

“No survivors.”

Whoever, whatever, had attacked the village did it for the sole reason of murder. A mass massacre with no bodies to account for. Nothing but darkened blood.

Hadrius grits his teeth, and a lithe muse flexes in his cheek irritably. “The course will remain as is.” They had travelled thus far into their journey, it would be futile and rather tedious to pick another route.

The quicker they crossed this land, the easier it would be to return home.

His pack.

His people.

The Shadow Kingdom.

Their annual hunting activity had come at a significant, unexpected loss on their part as many wolves lost their lives during battles and raids. The mortals remained ever piteous and meek beneath them, but Hadrius and his men had encountered something different.

They are not vampires. Neither are they fae folk, nor sprites, ogres or any supernatural creature for that matter.

They were creatures he had only seen once while it mauled out his wolves. It resembled a wolf but something far more hideous — a caricature of a rabid wolf, a rogue, that could move and breath but with no forethought, no conscious, only the basic kill or be killed instinct in it.

His lips curl in profound distaste as he claps dirt from his palms; “Have the men prepare for tomorrow, the first group of ten will go ahead to clear the path, the middle group will be those injured and sick, I will be in the last group.”

Dante nods in acknowledgement, his eyes linger on the village. “What happens if we are attacked?”

“What we always do,” Hadrius brushes past him, casting a final apathetic stare at the forgotten village. “We kill.”

The camp is alive as the warlord strides through it. Once or twice, his gaze would slant across familiar faces of his men. Though they looked healthy and outgoing, a certain wariness and fatigue settles on the broad of their shoulders like an ugly weighted cloak.

Their annual raid would soon end.

In a week or less, men would be reunited with their mates and families that awaited their eager return within the walls. Those who are not reunited will find themselves as new widows and fatherless children.

In a week or less, Hadrius would be required to stand before the council and the Alpha, and beneath their impassive faces and sharpened scrutiny, he would account for all their gains which would place praise on his name as commander and Beta.

Yet, all the same, he would be required to account for their losses— why they occurred, and who was to blame other than the leader of the raid?

Hadrius cracks his neck, the scowl on his lips easing with a long, deflating sigh. He flexes his hands while making for the hall as dusk begins to eddy in the sky, the last of the sun’s rays cosseting behind grey clouds. Slowly the view abates to blackness and the night begins.

Unlike the noiseless outside, life within the hall booms. His men are bent over their plates like pigs guzzling in a trough, the loud clanking of wooden cups that matches inharmonious guffaws of laughter and chatter.

The noise wanes as heads magnetically pivot towards Hadrius who steps in. He halts a moment by the doorway and nods vaguely in their direction. The gesture is enough as noises rise again, so loud he feels his pulse begin to beat against his temple.

Hadrius drifts past tables and towards his position set at the head of the table.

“Hadrius,” one man bows in respect as the warlord sits.

A slave girl is immediately by his side, demurely pouring wine into a golden goblet. Subconsciously, Hadrius tilts his head to the right, an infinitesimal gesture, as his eyes slant towards the girl’s jaw then hair length.

Her jaw is soft, her hair is golden spun.

She is not his human.

“The men have been to ask,” one man draws his attention to the left, as he waves a shorthand at the hall all around. “If tomorrow is the day we leave, what do we do with them.”

Them, the humans.

Hadrius’ gaze flickers over each mortal face. Bruised and bloodied, swollen here and there, white starbursts on temples from being hit with blunt ends.

Their fear is almost tangible and they scurry like spiders as they drift about the hall on meek silver feet, avoiding his men like the plague.

Such pathetic things, he thinks while tracing a wistful finger along the rim of his goblet. “We will discard them.”

Mortals were forbidden from entering the Shadow Kingdom, as stated by law and everyone’s disapproval of such weak creatures walking among them.

The servants are merely comfort items for his men; a temporary source of their hedonistic pleasures which they would use as they sought fit. But the poor creatures did not realize that each breath is borrowed time from the warlord, and the clock had finally run out.

“Tomorrow, preferably before dawn,” Hadrius speaks as another slave, which he notes with subtle irritation, is not his own — where is the mortal?

“Hadrius.” Another man calls, and he blinks slightly bemused before recollecting his strayed thoughts.

“While it is still dark, have them all killed and burned by the forest clearing. The wind blows East at dawn and the smoke will not disrupt our journey West.”

They nod in approval and mutter sexual deviant plans for their final night before the females are disposed of.

Hadrius’ finds himself unwillingly searching the hall in slight vexation for another moment, then catches and chastises himself.

Once dinner is over, he rises without so much of a second thought and dutifully makes his way out of the room. Along the way, Hadrius sees a slave girl.

She is, perhaps, something other than normal looking... by human standards her features are acceptable enough.

“You,” drifting past the small huddle of girls, he lifts a finger and curls it in a ‘come hither’ gesture though his steps do not falter.

He does not wait to see if she follows suit, but the echoed slamming of her heart tells him that she is close behind. Heading straight for his building, Hadrius opens the door and steps into the familiar, his scent lingering with that of his human’s.

He halts before the divan and turns, setting his unsettlingly calm gaze on the girl that lingers uncertainly by the doorway. Hadrius lowers himself on the divan and leans back, stretching both hands out, resting them along the back of the furniture.

His feet plant themselves wide in a wordless command.

A red hue spreads beneath her dark skin, eyes fluttering to his manhood area, noting a slight strain beneath the material.

Hadrius sighs an impatient growl, and she begins to approach him. Wordlessly, lowering onto her knees like a penitent and reaching for the belt looped around his waist. Her fingers tremble like a white narcissus while working the buckle open and tugging it.

Just then, the door slowly clicks open, and a familiar figure steps inside.

Hadrius' apathetic gaze lifts to his human and she, in turn, flinches clearly not expecting him to be in the room. She recovers quickly however, as her eyes lower to the girl between his legs.

“I’m sorry,” His human mutters, automatically dropping her head and nimbly making her way to the bathroom.

Hadrius licks the back of his teeth thoughtfully the laces his index finger over the thumb, cracking it sharply while watching her back.

There is something withdrawn and tense in her movements, and he cannot dwell on the reasons as something warm and wet envelopes his raging cock.

The warlord's chest vibrates in pleasure as his head lolls back onto the headrest, conscious of the silken pink tongue that licks the pre-cum off the head of his cock then licks around his slit, adding pressure on the tip of her tongue as she draws across it.

His thoughts grow murky as she begins to gently suck the head of his cock, the action so familiar he vaguely wonders if his human can do such an action.

The suction grows tighter then weakens as her jaw unhinges and slowly, steadily, takes the whole length of his cock as far as her throat can accommodate. He feels the rings of her oesophagus spasm from the intrusion, squeezing the tip of his cock with such violence, his own hand twitches with the urge to reach around the back of her neck and force her deeper, test the depths of her perseverance.

The mortal would probably die, Hadrius’ muses inwardly, the corner of his mouth curling mirthfully.

Lazily, his eyes peer open at the sight of his human standing just off to the side, gingerly shifting her weight from one foot to another while pointedly avoiding the ministrations that occur between his legs.

Hadrius arcs an inquiring eyebrow, “Speak.”

Soft sucking sounds echo around them as the slave withdraws his cock from her mouth with an erotic wet pop. Her hand is soft as unrelenting as she strokes his base, running the flat of her tongue along the bulging vein on his underside.

The scent of his manhood, musky and heavy overwhelms the room unpleasantly. “May I go out?”

“Out,” he echoes with a heavy tongue, his voice drifting into indifference as electricity ribbons down his spine and out into the universe. His she abdomen is hot as she strokes him faster, tentatively licking one of his s then drawing it into her mouth, suckling hard.

Her incisors graze his epididymis and the pain jolts straight to the tip, rewarding her with more pre-cum.

Vaguely, Hadrius realizes his human is talking; "The washroom... I have not prepared for the night.”

He waves an impatient dismissive hand.

He does not see the indignant pursing of her lips that bleeds paleness, nor does he bother to follow her retreating figure. The door clicks shut just as his large hand cards through the girl's hair, and holding her face in place, begins to violently thrust his hips up.

His movements are fluid and swift, aiming to fill her hot wet mouth with his throbbing cock, imprinting the back of her throat which begins to buck and tighten as he surpasses her ring of muscles. Her nails dig into his thighs in a silent plead for air, but he does not stop, does not think.

Hadrius chases his orgasm, groaning deeply at the sloshing sounds of his cock that drives in and out of her mouth, tracing his veins on her tongue, poking the caverns of her cheeks with it— at some point her teeth graze the sensitive head of his cock and that is enough to push him over the edge.

Pressing her face down on his pelvis until her pixie nose is buried in his pubic hair, Hadrius cums long and hard, shooting load after load of his dense cum into her mouth, stuffing it down her throat.

Her cheeks puff out like a gerbil hoarding food, and that which she cannot swallow drips thickly onto his thighs, her dainty chin, her throat.

He releases her and leans back in exhaustion. The gesture is a silent dismissal.

As the door clicks shut behind her, the warlord rises and casts himself on the large, uncomfortable bed.

It creaks and groans beneath the intrusive weight, drawing a scowl from the Lycan. His own bed is far more comfortable.

A few more days.

With an arm drawn over his eyes to shield them from the penetrating candlelight, Hadrius begins to drift between conscious and unconsciousness. He does not completely succumb to the darkness for something stirs beneath his skin.

“Sleep,” he reproaches the beast within and the stirring stops, but only for a heartbeat before it starts up again. “Stop that.”

It does not stop.

Drunkards reel by his tent cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes.

In that wondering, odd silence, the warlord vaguely wonders how long it takes to use the restroom.

It is not until ten minutes drift to thirty, that the Epiphany finally dawns on him.

Slowly, and with pained precision, he lowers his arm and stares at the ceiling in slight incredulity.

His human had escaped.