40K: When evil spirits appear

"Then the dragon started to back away," Draco said.

Silence reigned around the warm fireplace; no one spoke or interrupted. This once bustling resting place, stained with mead, gravy, and blood, was now eerily quiet.

Draco didn't care. He grabbed the glass in front of him and gulped it down.

The familiar taste of mead spread between his lips and teeth, followed by a near-drunken dizziness brought on by the toxin. It was as fast as lightning, striking the Grey Hunter’s mind with great speed. But he was already very familiar with this threat and still had the capacity to take a second sip.

A few seconds later, he put down his glass, looked around, and saw a dozen or so wolves intently focused on their surroundings.

They had just returned from patrol; some, like Draco, were drinking or tearing into roasted meat, while others were polishing their weapons, the blades of axes and swords reflecting the cold light of the fireplace. They weren't the only listeners; some mortals permitted to travel with wolves also sat at this centuries-old table, listening in.

Draco glanced around again to make sure his gaze swept over each listener's face before continuing.

"What happened next happened very quickly: the frost dragon was retreating, while he was moving forward. After about a second or two, he started running, and I couldn't keep up with his speed. In just a moment, he was close to the dragon. The beast was obviously startled, so it pushed out its winged forepaws. I heard a muffled thud, and the surrounding snow was shaken up and scattered everywhere. Then, the dragon began to take a deep breath."

"It's about to breathe fire," said one of the wolves, quite seriously.

"Yes." Draco nodded. "But it didn't work; it died."

"What?" someone asked in surprise. "How did he die?"

Draco glanced at the questioner and, seeing it was a young Bloodclaw, grinned and replied, "I don't know either, kid. That's the problem—I didn't see anything. The dragon just collapsed. Its neck was smashed open, scales were scattered everywhere, and blood was flowing like a river. That was the first wound I saw. The second one was on its head, or more precisely, near its right eye, where there was a huge hole. And that guy…"

He shook his head.

"What's wrong with him?" Bloodclaw asked.

"He was standing over his left eye, pulling his hand outwards," Draco said.

What followed was an even longer silence.

Normally, Draco didn't like this atmosphere, but the situation was truly different now. He desperately needed some quiet time to sort out his thoughts. He had spoken quickly, yet succinctly, omitting many details. This wasn't his intention, but he couldn't help it. He was still recalling those eyes—not the red-eyed man's eyes, nor the later pair of eyes that leaped like flames, though both were unforgettable. What he truly thought about were the frost dragon's eyes, those vertical pupils belonging to a beast...

At first, it was afraid, but later it wasn't. In its dying moments, its eyes seemed to suddenly realize something, as if it had finally recognized something.

Draco held the now-dry glass in his hand, gently stroking its rim, feeling an itch deep within his bones.

After taking three breaths, he slammed the glass down on the table, stood up, and strode out of the warm hall.

It was late at night, and most of the warband servants, exhausted from a long day's work, had already gone to sleep, leaving Etner feeling rather deserted. This ancient fortress, towering into the clouds yet also deep underground, was the den of wolves, but it also belonged to these mortals; in fact, a Bloodclaw might know it less than a servant.

Fortunately, Draco has been Fenris's son for over seventy years, and he knows quite well where he should go.

After navigating two dusty secret passages, he returned to his base in Dalian—a magnificent hall constructed of reddish-brown wood and black iron. The insignia of the Death Wolf was everywhere, and the walls were covered with trophies. However, there were few people there; only a dozen or so Bloodclaws, who didn't even have beards, were wrestling shirtless on the side of the hall. They had somehow obtained a bucket of bone nails and scattered them on the ground. The losers who were wrestled down would be covered in blood from the nails, and they were not allowed to have them removed for a week.

This incident infuriated Draco. After all, this wasn't the first time these foolish brats had done this. If it were just wrestling, it wouldn't be so bad, but they always made a bloody mess and never cleaned it up. He initially wanted to stop them, but changed his mind after seeing a black-robed figure in the distance.

He walked over to the man, sat down beside him, and nodded in greeting: "Pastor."

The wolf priest Horrick offered him a cup of mead, a fleeting smile playing on his lips. He had the typical face of a son of Fenris, weathered and worn, his beard wild and flowing like a mane. This was one of his distinctive features; unlike many others, he didn't like to braid his beard.

"You're tired, Draco," the wolf priest said hoarsely. "Your steps have become heavy; this isn't the you I know. What's holding you back?"

Upon hearing this, Draco couldn't help but let out a self-deprecating laugh: "Is it really that obvious, Priest? Well, I admit my mistake and will correct it."

Horrick stared intently at him, then shook his head. "What kind of mistake is this? Now tell me your concerns, before the Wolf Lord returns. You should know, this is very rare; I've never seen the Wolf Lords hold such a long meeting..."

Draco picked up his glass and took a small sip. He wasn't very interested in drinking right now, which alone revealed the complexity of his feelings.

He put down his glass and spoke again, saying, "I'm worried I did something wrong today."

"What is it?"

"That red-eyed man, I brought him back to Et. I don't know what he is, Horrick. It makes me... afraid."

After he finished speaking, he took a deep breath. For a wolf, admitting to feeling fear is no easy task, but Draco still spoke his true feelings.

Horrick looked at him thoughtfully, smiled slowly, and then called him by his surname affectionately, but his tone was not very gentle, and could even be described as a little mocking.

"What is the source of your fear, Steelborn? Is it merely because you do not know what he is? I do not believe you need to know the answer to that question. Did not the Night Watchman named Zarek, the surviving member of the Frosthowl tribe, swear an oath before the Great Wolf* (2) and the Rune Priest* (3) by the souls of his ancestors? His oath resounded within Et, which means he was telling the truth. He said that the man protected him and the Ironheart tribe’s child last night and collected the remains of his brothers… Do not concern yourself with what he is; it is not important. A person’s actions are a hundred times more important than his appearance and words, and the man you have brought back is undoubtedly not an evil spirit."

With a restlessness he himself was unaware of, Draco Steelborn growled, "I know he's not an evil spirit, but he—"

"—And then?" Horrick interrupted him calmly. "Isn't that enough?"

"..."

After a moment of silence, Draco lowered his head deeply.

"Yes, Pastor, that's enough," he said softly. "I will correct my mistakes."

The wolf priest patted his shoulder with surprising force, then stood up and began to shoo away the bloodclaws that were trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. He mercilessly punched down one particularly reckless one, slapped another who showed him no respect to the ground, and then kicked them out of the hall one by one.

Seeing this, Draco couldn't help but smile. His inner turmoil was gone; he felt completely relaxed, and even felt a renewed urge to drink heavily...

Unfortunately, he had just raised his wine glass when his wolf lord, Harald the Wolf of Death, kicked open the massive, twenty-meter-high hall doors and pointed at him.

"Draco!" the white-haired wolf lord roared, sounding somewhat agitated for some reason. "Come with me, the Great Wolf wants to see you!"

In an instant, the Grey Hunter's mind went blank.

-----------------

A cold wind howled past as Logan Grimner stood calmly before the rune-covered prison door, surveying the prisoners inside.

His gaze was focused and extremely aggressive. Faced with such power, most people would probably only have two options: to submit or to resist. But the prisoner offered a third option: he stood in front of the door, and through the observation window on the heavy door made of fine gold, he stared at the alpha wolf of the pack.

He did not resist, but he did not yield either.

A moment later, Logan Grimner looked away and smiled as he shared his thoughts with those around him.

"Harald's Grey Hunters have probably brought us a patient, don't you think, Ulric?"

The man he called Ulric* (4) was an old man with white hair and beard, wearing the black and gold armor that the wolf priests were known for, and his expression was unusually calm.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I think he’s just observing us.”

"observe?"

“It’s obvious…” the chief wolf priest, much older than Logan, growled in reply. “Look at his posture, Logan. Don’t tell me you can’t see it, or you’re trying to fool me! He’s observing us, and he’s observing Ete. This readiness to fight is something only a warrior possesses. So he’s not a patient, he’s a warrior!”

"I do admit that," the big wolf replied with a smile, unperturbed by the reprimand. "Leaving aside the banishment of evil spirits, his slaying of that frost dragon alone is enough for us to sang his praises in epics. He was indeed a warrior, but I must maintain my opinion, Ulric."

The chief wolf priest looked at him reproachfully but said nothing more. Suddenly, Logan Grimner strode forward and reached for the cell door.

This simple action instantly tensed the muscles of Ulric, known as the Slaughterer. Logan glanced back at him, then opened the door and strode inside.

The prisoner silently raised his head and looked into his eyes.

The lord of the wolf pack spoke gently.

"First, I must thank you, stranger. Though you are a mystery, I still want to express my gratitude to you in person... You saved a Frosthowl Night Watchman from death, and you also killed that frost dragon, which saved one of our hunting packs. You have done a favor for the wolf pack, and we always repay kindness. Is there anything you need?"

The prisoner remained silent.

Logan nodded as if he had expected this.

"The Night Watchers, the surviving girl, and the Grey Hunters of Harald have all mentioned that you are an unusually silent person. One of my wolf lords even thought you were actually a walker, but I don't think so. Salvation is a noble act, how could a soulless and mindless walker extend such a helping hand to others? Therefore, I think you are unable to speak, or rather, unable to communicate with people."

He paused, his eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice lowered.

"I think someone or something has cursed you... Am I right?"

The prisoner looked at him calmly.

Despite still receiving no response, Logan Grimner still laughed.

He turned to look at the chief wolf priest.

The latter, annoyed and exasperated, raised his right fist at him and roared, "Impossible, Logan! You're walking with fire, you understand?! Don't expect me to find you a rune priest!"

He kept his word and didn't go. Unfortunately, Logan Grimner had already found someone else before even arriving at the prison.

Just half a minute later, a giant draped in a long robe entered the prison. His face was very long and his lips habitually turned down, giving him a particularly serious appearance. His name was Irnist, an extremely powerful rune priest, revered as the Sage among the wolves.

"My wise man has arrived!" Logan laughed and pointed at him, while winking at the ashen-faced killer Ulric.

Irnist coughed, deciding not to get involved in their affairs, and simply walked into the prison and took the prisoner's hand.

He knew exactly what he was doing, and although he had concerns about it like most people, he would not refuse his wolf's orders.

He slowly closed his eyes, and the light of psychic energy shone through his eyelids, twisting and turning like two thunderclouds, carrying his consciousness into the prisoner's mind... The cell fell silent, but it didn't last long, because just a moment later, Irnist suddenly opened his eyes, lowered his head, and vomited a mouthful of blood.

The killer, Ulric, drew his axe from his waist in an instant.

"Don't--!"

Irnist stopped him without turning his head, his right hand still holding the prisoner's hand.

A dozen seconds later, he turned around, panting. His face, pale from the backlash of the psionic spell, was now filled with an indescribable sadness.

"We must help him, Big Wolf..."

The wise man uttered this seemingly nonsensical sentence in a hoarse voice, then convulsed and collapsed. But he did not fall to the ground; the prisoner's hand gripped him like an unbreakable chain.

Logan Grimner looked at him, then at those crimson eyes, and suddenly took a step forward.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. "We'll help you."