Lord Of The Lost

William's breath hitched as his gaze locked onto the towering, grotesque figure of Iris. His pupils shrank, and a chilling realization dawned on him.

The "gatekeeper of the Black Forest" wasn't a title, it was literal.

Sofia's grandmother, Iris, had buried her decaying form deep in the Black Forest long ago. The grandmotherly figure he had encountered before? A mere illusion, a fleeting afterimage.

Her voice; when she spoke, it hadn't come from a single direction. It resonated everywhere, as though the forest itself was speaking.

This wasn't a trick. This was her truth.

---

"Iris, is this torment worth it?"

Mott's frail, aged body trembled and then began to shift. His hunched form stretched downward, his hands clawing the earth. His human shape dissolved as his frame grew, swelling with unnatural strength.

A tide of power exploded from him, matching the aura of Iris.

The Wolf Lord Mott had revealed his true self. His transformation was not as monstrous, yet equally commanding, a black wolf, aged and imposing.

Standing just a few dozen meters tall, Mott was dwarfed by Iris's grotesque bulk. Yet his aura radiated an undeniable strength. His thinning fur barely clung to his wrinkled, sagging skin, exposing his decayed musculature. Though past his prime, his long limbs and strong neck held a lingering power, a haunting reminder of his former might.

But it was his eyes, piercing green, glowing like cursed emeralds, that froze the soul. They were terrifying, endless in their depth and ferocity.

Mott's voice was steady, sharp. "Iris, among all werewolves, we're the only ones left who can still transform."

Iris's voice boomed in response, ancient and filled with decay. "We are relics of a forgotten age; Wolf Lords of an era when moonlight was not a requirement. But even the bloodlines of our descendants have grown so diluted they've lost the gift."

Mott sneered. "But look at you now. Your transformation is a curse. You're nothing more than a swollen, bloated corpse; slow, diseased, and corrupted by death. How can a dead Wolf Lord challenge one who still breathes?"

The two colossal wolves faced each other, one a monstrous relic of rot and decay, oozing the stench of death; the other a grizzled warrior on the verge of collapse, his body frail but his spirit unyielding.

Though they were both relics of a dying age, their presence was suffocating. They stood as titans, forces that made the world itself feel small and fragile.

Yet neither moved.

The wolves circled, keeping a vast distance of hundreds of meters between them. For these giants, each step spanned a lifetime. They paced carefully, silently studying the other, waiting for a flaw to appear.

Iris finally broke the silence, her tone filled with venom. "Why don't you strike, Mott? Come forward and tear out my throat. Or is it my filthy blood you fear? Afraid it will poison your own?"

Mott didn't flinch. "We don't need to kill each other."

"Fate was sealed ten years ago," Iris spat. "I collapsed when I reached this cursed border town and buried myself beneath this forest, knowing what lay ahead. Tell me, Mott; who do you think I was fighting then?"

Mott's voice softened, though no less fierce. "It's tragic that you see your own kind as enemies. We share the blood of the werewolf ancestor, yet his descendants are weak; malnourished, fragile. Werewolves once hunted dragons, giants, and demons. And now? They struggle to overcome a single town."

Iris chuckled darkly. "The ancestor of the werewolf chased the moon. He saw its light reflected in the water, but instead of looking upward, he dived in to claim it. You want the moon's light? Then plunge into the depths and find Him there."

Mott's reply was laced with grim resolve. "Drown me, then. Drag me into the depths. But you will hand over Sophia. She belongs to the werewolves."

Iris's voice rang out, sharp and unwavering. "Sophia is a witch, Mott. And you; cunning and deceitful, cannot be trusted. The powerful witches who fell into darkness did so because you and your brother broke the pact. You betrayed them, killing those who hadn't even come into their full power."

Mott's response was cold, his green eyes gleaming. "That's a separate matter. We had a vision: a soulless Sophia, a being without individuality or prejudice; pure and merciful, like the original moon itself. Witches and werewolves alike could exist under her light. But now, with Sophia's consciousness awakened, how can we trust that she will safeguard the future of the werewolves?

"Iris, consider this: If the gods of the Church commanded all priests to leap into the abyss, they would obey without question. At the moment of death, they would feel supreme honor."

Iris countered, her voice filled with disdain. "The clergy's power comes from their gods. It is their duty to follow such commands."

Mott's tone darkened, his words seething with bitterness. "That's exactly why we cannot depend on gods. Have we not, as werewolves, suffered enough? Stripped of the moon's favor, we've fallen into decline. If we lose Sophia, we are doomed to extinction. Werewolves cannot rely on her whims for survival. Imagine if the very earth beneath your feet awoke one day, rose up, and abandoned the creatures living on it, how would they endure without their foundation?"

Iris's gaze hardened, her voice unyielding. "I answered that question ten years ago. Sophia will rule the night. She will become the ancestor of a new era, one for both werewolves and witches."

Mott's growl rumbled through the air, filled with rage. "And in doing so, you've chained the werewolves to something even worse than the original moon! We need to control Sophia, not the other way around. You're dooming us, Iris!"

Iris's voice cut through his fury like steel. "Am I the one destroying the werewolves, Mott? Or are you? There is no ancestor who does not love their descendants, just as no mother neglects her children. Sophia's existence ensures the survival of werewolves. Her potential is limitless, she even knows how to craft potions from her own blood to heal me. We should nurture and elevate her, until she fulfills her destiny. Until she lives up to the name 'Sophia' a name born of tragedy on the original moon."

Mott snarled, his frustration boiling over. "But it's too late! We don't have the divinity of the original moon. The daughter of the original moon was sacred from birth, but Sophia? She's nothing more than an imitation, a fragile piece of porcelain! Do you think porcelain can be forged into steel? Even if it's possible, how long will it take? Witches may live long lives, but we werewolves have less than a century left. By the time Sophia becomes the new ancestor, we'll be extinct! You don't care because her blood flows in your veins. Your descendants will live on. But what about us, Iris? Why should I care about the future when we won't live to see it?"

Iris's tone softened, but her words carried the weight of an ancient burden. "If I cared only for blood, I would not have sacrificed my daughter. You are consumed by the idea of lineage, Mott, but you fail to see the greater danger looming over us. If this disaster strikes, neither the Moonlight Werewolves nor the Night Werewolves will survive. The ritual has changed, and Sophia has a soul; this is the enlightenment of the original moon, a gift, not a curse. Without shelter, how can a pregnant werewolf give birth in the coming storm?"

Mott's claws raked the earth in frustration. "That's a problem for the future, Iris! We can't wait any longer. Unleash Sophia's power now, let her reveal her true form. The werewolves don't need a fragile girl clinging to her grandmother. We need strength!"

Iris's eyes blazed with fury. "You see a desert, Mott, and in that desert, a sapling begins to grow. Instead of nurturing it, you want to rip it out to dig for water beneath. You don't realize that by doing so, you're destroying the tree that could one day shield you from the storms."

The tension between the two giants reached its breaking point. Both wolves bared their fangs and roared, their voices shaking the very wilderness around them.

The ground trembled as they charged. Their clash wasn't just physical, it was the collision of ideologies, a battle of visions for the future.

"I told you, a dead Wolf Lord cannot defeat a living one!" Mott roared.

His claws slashed through the air, gleaming like curved blades. With a single, precise strike, he severed part of Iris's forelimb as though slicing through brittle stone.

Iris took Mott's devastating blow, but it barely slowed her down. She moved with astonishing speed, evading his relentless attacks. Chunks of decayed flesh fell from her body, leaving a trail of rot in her wake.

"You forget," she growled, her voice echoing across the battlefield, "I am the priest of the werewolves. I know everything about our kind. But you; Mott, you know nothing of what I have become!"

The ground trembled violently, the earth splitting beneath their colossal forms. Suddenly, thick tentacles burst forth from the soil like monstrous worms, writhing and reaching for Mott.

Mott leaped into the moonlit sky, his razor-sharp claws slashing through the void. The air itself seemed to tear apart under the force of his attack. His strike carved deep gashes into the land, sending clouds of dust spiraling into the heavens.

The battlefield turned into a blurred chaos of motion and destruction. The sky and earth melded into a gray haze as Mott and Iris clashed over an area spanning thousands of meters. Despite their immense size, their speed was blinding, leaving behind only faint afterimages.

Their close-combat battle unleashed staggering power. The air exploded with thunderous booms as their blows collided. Gravel and soil erupted like volcanic ash under the force of their attacks.

The two giant wolves seemed unstoppable, locked in a ferocious dance of speed and violence. The ground heaved and cracked beneath their relentless movements. It was as if a dragon soared through the skies while a tiger leaped across the land.

Mott slashed through the writhing tentacles with ease, his claws turning them into ribbons. The battlefield became a grotesque landscape, littered with severed limbs and debris, and soaked in foul-smelling blood.