Hordedoom

One hundred and fifteen years after the end of the war:

Bright daylight shone upon Houstad's Alley of Glory. Situated in the expansive park and partially covered by the rustling trees casting long shadows upon the white tombstones inlaid with precious metals at the edges, it was a solemn place of shared sadness and triumph. Sadness, for those resting peacefully here will never again inspire tens of thousands with their prowess, speeches, or deeds. Triumph, because their sacrifices paved the road for the future generations, giving birth to a better tomorrow.

Aranea Wintersong, the warlord of the Wolf Tribe, sat on the bench, enjoying the breeze and reminiscing about her first meeting with her adoptive mother as she waited for the parley her named sister had requested. Janine Ironjaw had given up her jaw and an arm to save the young girl from Skinwalker Kalaisa and later served as a guiding presence for the troubled cub. She had rescued them from King's ambush and enabled Aranea's unorthodox methods of leadership to flourish.

Janine had died during the reclamation of the eastern part of the Ravaged Lands, and even though her loss had been avenged, her absence left a hole in the young warlord's heart.

Every warlord was coming to Houstad for the upcoming parade, bringing with them a force not seen since the Breaking of the Gilded Horde. Encased in a coffin of transparent material, her desecrated body restored by cloning technology, Janine had been solemnly lowered yesterday into her final resting place in a grave in a meadow that housed the rest of the volunteers who had held the gate on that fateful day. Three warlords, Martyshkina, and three sword saints attended the event. Tancred's son, Ibrahim Ironwill, delivered the speech on behalf of First Sunblade.

The Order and the Tribe had planned to stand in two equal lines, but Aranea and Keyl disrupted that idea. She directed the Summersprings, whose members had played the key role in the ruination of her parents, to stand between the packs of Valerye Red Streak and Olesya, while Pack Aranea flanked the Wintersongs. After the ceremony, Yuki was swarmed by Sunblade and Dewglitter girls curious about her exotic "pigmentation," to the amusement of the shamans and warlords present and the embarrassment of the sword saints and sages.

It was time to bury the hatchet and mend the past grievances.

Four meters and a quarter tall, boasting a magnificent silken black fur coat, Aranea inherited Dad's lean build, unfit for Mom's all-rounder or Janine's brawler styles. The warlord preferred ranged weapons, aware of her shortcomings and how easily Academician had matched her in their recent scramble. Alas, the MP had denied her permission to carry even K and G, her trusty railguns, and sitting in blue denim shorts, a white shirt, and a sleeveless jacket, with only her father's sword at her belt, Aranea felt naked.

The playful daylight danced in the windows of tall spires visible above the park's trees. Displays installed on the buildings and billboards placed in the corridors leading to the Alley of Glory promoted care for the old and young, in addition to the advice to get free medical checkups. Birds chirped, swooping from one branch to another, feeding on the harmless insects.

It'll happen. Aranea promised herself, lazily turning her attention to the ad for traveling equipment. On it, a cheerful father was busily preparing freshly caught fish while the mother played with her sons.

She noticed a surprised look from a passing Ice Fang couple and grinned. There was a white patch around her crimson eye and a larger one on her back, hidden by her clothing. The acceptance of her lineage broke a hidden lock in her body, changing it further. She didn't mind it, but the exotic zebra-like appearance began to invite teasing from her friends and attention from outsiders.

"Warlord Aranea." She raised her head, looking at the tall Ice Fang dressed in a strict business suit. The inner side of her long, curly hair was painted yellow, and one end of her cape rested on her left shoulder, with the second end fastened to the belt. Gem-encrusted silver bracelets, rings, and jewelry covered the stranger's paws and neck. "May I share a seat with you?"

"The more, the merrier, Sword Saint Bertruda." Aranea recognized her by the spear secured on the upper side of her left arm. She shifted to the side, freeing space for the tall woman, and experienced a pang of jealousy at the Ice Fang's muscular build.

"Janine and I shared a history. Not of the pleasant kind, and much of it due to my past immaturity," the sword saint said, spreading her cape. "I take it she had told you part of it?"

"Nothing more than the usual superstitions about the Order." Aranea waved a paw.

"A pity my actions sowed discord that lasted until the end of her days," Bertruda said. "I wrote to Janine regularly, but she never replied. I suppose she never forgave me."

"I wouldn't be so sure." Aranea shrugged. "Our Tribe had sought to purchase thunder sows. The warlord advised the shaman council to petition you for help. Whatever spine mite ran between you two, she seemed to let go of the hatred."

"Truly?" Bertruda raised a brow, her crimson eyes glinted, clearly intrigued. "I never received the request."

"Eh, I said that she gave the advice, not that the old farts followed it." Aranea paused, realizing whom she was telling it to. "Not that I implied anything bad about prolonging one's age or doubting the wisdom of the ages… I meant to say, elders, Sword Saint!"

Bertruda laughed in a soft, musical voice. The wind caught a strand of her white and golden hair, playing with it. "Fret naught, dear Aranea. We have our own share of 'old farts' as well, so I share the sentiment."

"Yeah, but..." Her ears caught the rustle of a crumpled leaf and a faint clank. "My watchdog… shaman is nearby. Let's avoid derogatory remarks. None of us are perfect. I heard you were crippled by Abel and lost Elegance. Seems like you can't trust the news."

"No, they spoke true. The doctors of our Order restored to me what I had lost…" She rolled up a sleeve on her arm, spreading a fur to show long letters marrying the skin. "…down to the last cell. Elegance and I had been parted for a quite long period."

"Wait, you also immortalize your fallen that way?" Aranea pulled the collar of her shirt at the surprised blink of the red eyes.

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Painted with a bright purple paint that seeped into her skin, the names of Gregor Wintersong, Kalaisa Wintersong, Kostya, Janine, and many more shielded the left side of her neck, disappearing underneath the cloth.

"My fallen," Bertruda whispered. "Indeed. I oft forget the nobility of my distant kin. True, their souls are ever welcomed to the Mountaintop's hearth. Warlord Aranea, I confess that I sought you out with selfish intention."

"I have nothing against fostering closer ties with the Ice Fangs, but Keyl is my one true soulmate. I am not into women, nor will I be involved in the Order's political games," Aranea said. "I have enough of that back in the Ravaged Lands."

"Aranea, you entertain me." Bertruda hid a chuckle with a paw. "I never imagined that you would be privy to my personal life."

"Not at all, Bertruda." Aranea returned the familiarity. Don't let them walk over you. A warlord is equal to a sword saint. Keyl had advised her during a shopping trip prior to the visit. "Celebrity gossip bores me. But while ordinary Ice Fangs usually take the name of a house they marry into, sword saints keep their family name. They display a sign of their partner's lineage to honor the union, and I see nothing, only the Mountaintop heraldry on you. So I guessed."

"Bravo." Bertruda inclined her head. "Let me return the courtesy. Judging by the absence of a scar on your neck, fanged or otherwise, I dare say you and Keyl haven't been wed yet."

"Ho-ho, you know our traditions!" Aranea cheered, enjoying the exchange. She sensed no hostility in the sword saint and let her guard down. "We are in the dating phase. I…" The horrible Kalaisa prowling the deserts. "He…" A perfect quick-draw blocking the bullet to protect a kid. "We need time."

"A prudent decision. You face no opposition from me, Aranea," Bertruda softened her tone. "Janine once considered me to be a sister. My unworthy behavior caused her to disown me. Aranea, I wish to offer you support not just as a sword saint or a cousin, but as the forlorn sister of Warlord Janine Ironjaw, the true Bull-Slayer."

"I accept, Auntie." Aranea shook her paw. "I had heard that the Mountaintops own one of the best rotary cannons in the country. Would it be too bold of me…"

"By all means, feel free to test them." Bertruda and she shared laughter.

So long. For too long, hatred had filled her heart and fear had shackled her limbs, filling her with prejudice towards the Ice Fangs. It took experiencing the worst and the best that the Tribe and the Order had to offer for Aranea to understand that, in the end, the two were not so different. They even shared the same immense pride and ease in taking offense! Her family ended up being much bigger than she'd ever dared to imagine, and the warlord hoped that her mothers would have approved of her decision to bridge the broken relationships.

They deserved to be happy.

The clanking approached, and she stopped her cheering, confused at the sight of a Wolfkin near Janine's grave. Aranea hadn't seen every member of the Tribe, not even close, but she'd never heard of a male so augmented. Black plates covered his mechanical reverse-jointed legs so completely that they could've passed for normal limbs, but Aranea's ears picked up the gears moving inside. An image of a roaring panther threatened to leap from the back of his black leather coat. Steel appendages replaced his middle and forefingers, and in place of his eyes shone green oculars.

He squatted, whispering, 'Sorry.' His paw dug out a little hole. Then the Wolfkin uncorked a bottle and poured out what looked like a white powder.

"What are you doing, brother?" Aranea asked, cautiously approaching the mysterious male. Bertruda joined them, sniffing the air.

"You are!" She gasped.

"Reuniting our family, Warlord, Sword Saint," the Wolfkin said in a soft, gentle voice, placing a paw on the tombstone. "See you around, Bogdan." He touched a portrait of two males, one with a metal arm. "Sorry for not telling you, Ignacy. The rest of my brothers, sisters, and her soulmates are also in that mix." He stood up, biting his wrist to let his blood soak the ground. "And finally me, should I one day disappear in a faraway land. It took me a while to find them all, but today's DNA testing is capable of miracles."

"Impossible," Aranea whispered. "Martyshkina had told me that Impatient One is Janine's daughter. Her sole living offspring. Who are you?"

The green oculars turned to them. The Wolfkin was smiling, bearing the scent-mark of the Omega Pack, matchless infiltrators serving under Alpha. Then he pulled out a small tracking device in a sturdy casing, a knife, and a patched beret, giving them to Aranea. She sniffed it, widening her eyes further as she sensed Janine's, Scarred One's, and Impatient One's scents lingering on the old things.

"Marco," Bertruda said, stepping closer. Her arms twitched as if to grab the man by the throat, but then they wrapped around him in a warm embrace.

"True. A stupid, ungrateful cub, who was too fearful until it was too late."

"Marco?" Aranea asked, thinking feverishly. Clearly, he wasn't the doctor who worked in the Ravaged Lands, just shared the name. She recalled Mom's family tree. "But you died over a hundred years ago!"

"Not died, hid," he said, hugging the sword saint back. They let go of each other. "That war pointed out the inadequacies in the Tribe's rigid structure. Improvement was needed, but the shamans and the Blessed Mother might've banned it. Warlord Alpha went behind their backs, training the omegas in a different way, until it was the right opportunity to present us. Fifty years ago…" He sucked in the air, swaying. "Alpha insisted that we tell our siblings and parents, but I hesitated. Kept putting it off for later and later, worrying about what I could've said or could've done to make it right, to explain why it was needed. I had deliberately taken the most distant assignments…"

"Pearl." Aranea understood. "You are the reason why they are asking for unification."

"It was a collaborative effort. I contributed by snuffing out the underground road supplying the Resistance," Marco said. "I thought to explain everything to Mother one day, and the dawn came when it was far too late. Never leave anything off for later, Warlord."

"Right back at you, lizard-shit!" Aranea crashed into him, lifting the smaller Wolfkin by his throat, her nostrils flaring. "Do you have any idea how they must have felt when they thought you were gone? Have you told your... supreme shaman that you are alive?!" she said, feeling Starstruck One's gaze on her back.

"Planned to visit her this month!" Marco answered. Fingers tightened around his neck as Aranea shook his body violently. "Honest! I thought you don't dominate anyone in your pack," he wheezed.

"I'm not picking on you because you're weaker or a male. I bully you because you're a stupid asshole! You've been given the permission, the Abyss you were waiting for, you dumb, self-harming cusack!" Bertruda placed a paw on her shoulder, and Aranea let go of the Omega, calming herself. "You are not off the hook. We are a family. You will not protect us by destroying yourself!"

"You just met me!"

"So what?! The Wolf Tribe is my kin!"

"Kin…" he repeated slowly, chuckling. "I never thought it'd be this simple. You know, Warlord, Mom was always so fixated on her duties, blaming herself for the stuff outside of her control. I wonder if she would've forgiven me."

"She'd give you a beating and forgive you immediately," Aranea swore angrily. "Janine felt like all of us, I…" Janine hugging the photo of the one-eyed girl. "…know it. Don't think that you alone are flawed, Marco. I betrayed her trust and hurt her badly myself. It was a horrible thing to do. I would have taken back what I'd said if I could, but she never hated me. She cared for us like few others are capable of."

Marco gave her a long look before speaking, "In the Omega team, attachments are considered a weakness. Can't dispute that emotions do hinder us in the field. But right now, I wish I could still cry. Thank you, sister."

"Sister?"

"Yes. Mom looked after you, treating you with soft gloves…"

"I had to fight over food on my first day!"

Marco flashed a perfect white smile. "And yet you love her. That's enough for me. Blood ties or not, I accept you as a sister and as a warlord, Aranea Wintersong of the Wolf Tribe. Should you be in need of anything, the Omega Pack stands ready to assist!" He slapped himself on the chest, rustling his coat.

"Not bothered by my eye?" Aranea grinned.

"Why should I be? Mine are way cooler."