TADEAS (Bringer of Doom) CH 2 - To Destroy (Patreon)

The ship looms before me, a colossal shadow that devours the sky. The sun, once vibrant and golden, now clings weakly to the periphery of the vessel's towering sails — a mere halo of light gasping for purchase against the expanse of blackened wood. Darkness seeps across the shore like a tide of ink, staining the sands in endless shadow. The air feels denser beneath this suffocating shroud, burdened with an immense cold that bites deeper than the mere absence of warmth. It is not a normal feeling that confines me no, wild goosebumps erupt against my skin standing upright, my heart relentlessly pounding at the grand entrance of the foreigners yet it is not merely their presence that subjugated me it is something else.

Something far more compelling, something I am unable to pinpoint at the moment. But I sense that whatever it is, it feels as though sort of foreboding and I do not welcome it.

The wolves around me, so animated only moments ago, now stand mute and still. Their heads lift as one, eyes wide and vacant, their breath held captive by the oppressive weight that presses down on us all. I feel it too — a force that transcends sight or sound, an unseen presence that coils around me like a great, glacial hand. The sky itself seems to tremble beneath its dominion.

I cannot tear my gaze away as though I am hypnotised. The ship's silhouette stretches impossibly wide, its edges sharp enough to carve through the horizon itself. Its hull gleams darkly, sleek and cold, like obsidian dragged from the earth's core. Strange carvings etch their way across the wood — twisting, jagged designs that seem to pulse and ripple, writhing like serpents weaving between the cracks. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if my mind is faltering, if the unnatural aura emanating from the ship has begun to tamper with my senses. 

Yet the carvings continue to move, flowing in sinuous patterns that seem too deliberate, too precise to be the work of chance. The symbols flicker with an eerie, silver sheen—faint yet undeniable, as if they breathe with life of their own. Their energy seeps into the air, a cold and biting current that slithers beneath my skin and curls around my bones.

The air thickens, clinging to me like frozen mist. The once-playful sea breeze now drags with a chilling weight, needling my face and tightening across my chest. The scent of brine swells, sharp and pungent, but something fouler threads through it now — metallic and bitter, the unmistakable tang of iron. It clings to the back of my throat, sour and nauseating, coating my tongue with the taste of rust and decay. My muscles stiffen beneath the pressure, my body locking in place as if my limbs are no longer my own as though I have no control over them but whoever is on that ship does.

Their presence burrows into my marrow, relentless and merciless, demanding that I yield. The air hums with power — cold, vast, and ancient — threading through my veins like ice water. I cannot resist it. I cannot fight it. The sensation is too raw, too overwhelming — a primal instinct that seizes me in its unrelenting grip. Submission.

My head dips forward, slow and involuntary, until my chin brushes the fabric of my veil. My breath stutters, shallow and stifled, as though my ribs have been bound by iron. My legs weaken, knees buckle, the strength in them faltering beneath the sheer weight of the force surrounding me. I clench my hands at my sides, fingers curling against the rough wood of our stall in a desperate bid to anchor myself — but even this offers little resistance. The presence coils tighter, pressing down like an unseen hand against my spine, and I cannot rise beneath its weight. My mind roils in protest, urging me to resist, to fight — but my body has already betrayed me. Whatever power emanates from this ship is vast, suffocating, and absolute.

The wolves beside me are ensnared just the same. They stand rigid and mute, their heads bowed, their faces frozen in expressions of unease and quiet dread. Merchants, hunters, warriors alike — none are spared the hand that forces them into silent reverence. Even Callis — fierce, formidable Callis — is powerless beneath it. Her fingers tremble faintly where they clutch the edge of the stall, her knuckles bloodless beneath the strain. Her face is pale, drawn taut with unease, her gaze locked on the vessel's looming frame. I have seen Callis face danger before — bandits, beasts, enemies more savage than I can count — but never have I seen her look like this. Never have I seen her afraid.

I force a breath into my lungs, but it feels thin and shallow, as if the air itself recoils from my presence. My fingers tighten against the wood, my nails digging into the grain. I summon what little strength I can, willing my body to resist this unnatural compulsion — but the force is too vast, too depleting. It pours through me like floodwater breaking a dam, dragging me deeper beneath its suffocating tide. What kind of unfathomable power has the moon given these wolves? Who are they to cause havoc to the tides and the vast skies? It almost feels as though they have come alive from some sort of myth that only existed in whispered stories and ancient books.

The ship groans. A deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the earth itself — low and mournful, like a beast awakening from deep slumber. The sound stretches across the shore, pulsating against my ribs and settling deep in my chest. A chain rattles, heavy and metallic, followed by the thunderous grind of wood against stone. The gangplank crashes down, shuddering as it connects with the earth. The vibrations quiver beneath my feet, crawling up my legs like an omen. My breath hitches as the chokehold their presence had upon me gradually begins to disperse and I am allowed to relax my head again. I am given control back to my body, and it terrifies me in ways like never before.

Outwardly tall figures emerge from the dark shadows. At first, they are indistinct — mere silhouettes blurred by the shifting gloom that coils around the ship's hull. But as they move, their forms sharpen, revealing figures clad in layers of dark leather and heavy fur, their garments worn and ragged yet undeniably powerful. Their armour is crude, stitched together from the hides of beasts, their shoulders adorned with thick pelts that hang like the trophies of predators. Jagged bones — some carved into talismans, others sharpened to cruel points — dangle from their belts and wrists, clinking softly with each step. Chains, rusted and blackened, are looped across their chests, each link grotesquely heavy, as though forged from suffering itself. Their boots strike the gangplank with purpose, thick-soled and laced with strips of leather designed for war and endurance.

Helms of twisted metal crown their heads, crafted in crude imitation of snarling beasts — bears, and creatures I cannot name — their jagged teeth and hollowed eyes swallowing the fading light. Their faces are obscured beneath coarse black cloth, masks that leave only their piercing eyes visible — cold, merciless stares that gleam like shards of ice. Some carry axes slung low on their hips, the iron blades chipped and stained dark as if they have never been cleaned. Others clutch spears carved from blackened wood, their tips jagged and viciously barbed.

They linger at the top of the ramp, motionless yet oppressive, their presence spreading across the shore like a storm rolling in from the sea. The air condenses around them, clinging to the skin like damp wool — heavy, stifling, impossible to ignore. Their stillness is unsettling, unnatural, as though they are less men and more statues carved from shadow. No flicker of movement, no restless shifting of weight — just a wall of figures shrouded in black, each of them exuding an energy so potent it feels as though the air itself recoils from their presence.

Their presence... their presence screams. It is not a sound, not truly, but something more visceral — a silent roar that coils through the air, stinging and suffocating. It crawls over the sand like a living thing, burrowing into my skin and winding itself through my chest. The sensation claws at my ribs, cold and jagged, a hushed pressure that toughens until my breath feels strangled in my throat. It curls through the silence like smoke from a dying fire — insidious, lingering, relentless.

And then I feel it — something deeper, something sharper. It slices through the ship's vast aura, slipping beneath the oppressive weight like a knife drawn through silk. It is cold and deliberate, precise in a way that feels far too intimate. It moves with purpose, winding through the stillness like a serpent in the grass, slithering unseen yet undeniable.

I feel it weaving through the frozen crowd, its path unmistakable. It brushes past the merchants, slipping between their stalls with cruel indifference. It slides past the warriors, their strength rendered meaningless beneath its suffocating grip. The wolves who once stood tall — hunters, fighters, wolves who have tasted blood and survived war — are nothing to this force. It pours through the gathered crowd like water seeping through cracks, cold and methodical, winding between motionless bodies with unwavering focus.

And then it finds me. It had been searching for me with purpose and here I am standing still like prey caught in its net and just like I am captured for eternity.

The moment it touches me, my breath shudders from my lungs. My pulse jolts violently against my ribs, racing like a snared animal. The cold slithers deeper, coiling around my limbs, and curling inside my chest. The air seems to twist and constrict, as though something vast and unseen has closed its hand around my soul. My body stiffens, locked in place as though invisible chains have fastened around my spine. The force does not just press down on me — it pins me, fixing me in place with a power so absolute I can feel my muscles quiver beneath its grip.

It is not merely presence — it is recognition. Cold, unblinking, and deliberate. A gaze without eyes, a hand without form, yet it knows me. It had been waiting for this very moment, I feel it worming beneath my skin, threading through my veins like ice water. My mind recoils, panicked and frantic, yet no part of me can break free. The force digs deeper, reaching places I did not know could be touched — a fierce and invasive brisk that seems to know me, as though it is sifting through my very essence searching for that one spot it can call home.

Whatever it is, has been waiting to find me. And now that it has, it shall never let go.

I know without a doubt that it is still searching for its home within me. But when it lingers, settling deeper inside my chest like an iron claw curling around my ribs, I know that whatever this presence seeks — whatever it desires — it has found it in me. I do not understand what this feeling is, I do not sense what it means. All I know is that it has rooted itself so deep into the very essence of my soul almost like a dagger impaling supple flesh, only a dagger can be removed but this...this shall remain at the core of my existence forever. 

I cannot grasp its shape or decipher its meaning, yet I feel it spreading through me like ink seeping into parchment — inevitable and permanent. It clings to me, weaving itself into the marrow of my bones, each thread of its power coiling deeper, entangling with something vital and unshakable inside me. It does not ask permission. It does not hesitate. It simply claims.

It feels cold — but not the ordinary cold that stings the skin or chases warmth from the fingertips. No, this cold is something far crueller, far more deliberate. It is a searing, unnatural chill that burrows inward, bypassing muscle and blood to wrap itself around something far more fragile — something I did not even realise could be touched. My soul.

The sensation is sharp at first, like ice splintering through my chest, jagged and biting, and then it blooms — a slow, smouldering ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat. It is neither pain nor comfort, but something far more unsettling. This is not something that can be undone. Whatever force has found me has claimed me in a way that feels permanent as if it has fused with my very being — an unwelcome presence now nestled in the very heart of what I am.

I feel it shifting beneath my skin, tendrils of that cold energy winding deeper still, carving paths through my ribs, my spine, my skull. It coils tightly around my lungs, and each breath comes shallow and strained. The air I draw feels thin, and brittle — like trying to breathe through splintered glass.

Worse still, it knows me. I feel it — the weight of its attention settling fully upon me. It is not mindless. It is not wild like a storm or blunt like a curse. No — this is something sentient, something that has pierced into the fabric of my being with purpose. It moves like a hunter who has struck its mark — calm, precise, unhurried — as though it knows I cannot escape.

There is no malice in it. No anger or violence. That would almost be easier to bear. Instead, it feels coldly assured — unshakable in its certainty that I am meant to be claimed, as though I have belonged to it all along and I am only now beginning to realize it. My heart beats faster, pounding against my ribs like a fist hammering at a locked door, desperate to break free. But there is no escape. The more I resist, the deeper it sinks into me, rooting itself in places I cannot reach. It is in my breath. My blood. My mind.

And then it tightens — just slightly, just enough to remind me of its presence. I feel the cold sharpen, piercing deeper still, and my body betrays me further. My legs tremble, my knees weaken, and I stagger beneath the weight of it. The world around me blurs, my senses dulling to everything but the presence — its presence — anchoring itself deeper inside me. I am powerless beneath it. I am defenceless before it. And the most terrifying part of all is the truth that creeps into my mind — a whisper of realization that coils through my thoughts like smoke.

This presence... this force that has now fully claimed me... it is not leaving. This was possession.

It will never let me go.

The air hangs dull and oppressive, smothering in its stillness. The weight of anticipation coils tighter with every passing second, winding itself around my chest like an iron band. No one dares speak, no one dares move. The once-lively murmurs of the market have long since dissolved into silence, the kind that pinches against your skin and descends deep into your bones. Even the wolves who once stood proud and unyielding — warriors, traders, and wanderers alike — now stand subdued, their heads lifted in quiet vigilance, their bodies tense with the instinctive knowledge that something greater than themselves is approaching. My breath hooks in my throat, shallow and sharp, as though the air itself resists being drawn in.

The ship groans again, a low, bone-deep sound that reverberates through the earth like a distant growl. The sea shells beneath my feet tremble faintly, and the air seems to tremble in response, a slow exhale from something vast and undiscovered. The sound feels almost...alive, as though the ship itself is more than just wood and iron — a breathing, restless thing stretching from slumber. Then comes the rattle of chains, metallic and harsh, clanking in uneven rhythm like the beating of some ancient, corrupted heart. The tension sharpens as the ramp begins to descend, wood grinding against stone in a drawn-out, splintering groan that scrapes against my skull. The noise feels deliberate — stretched and slow — as though to remind us all that whatever stands on the other side does not rush for anyone.

From within the ship's darkened maw, the shadows spill out like smoke, thick and restless. They coil and writhe, curling outward as though reluctant to part from the one who commands them. The darkness clings to the figure that emerges — swallowing her limbs, winding around her like a living shroud — until at last, the light of day pierces through the blackness and reveals her.

She steps forward, and the air seems to constrict. My eyes catch on her at once, drawn by something deeper than curiosity — something colder, something primal. She does not simply appear; she unfurls, emerging from the gloom with a presence so commanding it seems to claim the very earth she treads upon. There is no hesitation in her stride, no falter in her step. Each movement is fluid, and precise — a controlled kind of grace that speaks of power not flaunted, but possessed without question.

Her hair is the first thing that seizes my attention — a torrent of fire cascading down her back in thick, unruly waves. Each curl gleams with shades of copper and crimson, streaks of molten gold twisting through the endless red. It is a colour that defies restraint — bold, violent, alive. No crown could match the way her hair commands the eye. When she moves, the strands shift and shimmer like embers flickering beneath ash — burning yet never consumed. The wind stirs around her, yet the flames of her hair barely waver, as though even the air itself does not dare to touch her without permission.

Her face is a sculpted masterpiece of stony, unrelenting beauty. Her cheekbones are sharp enough to carve stone, her jawline etched in perfect symmetry — all harsh angles and flawless precision. Her skin, pale as frozen marble, bears no trace of warmth, no flush of colour, as though her blood itself runs cold. Her lips, dark as wine, are full and severe, curled faintly at the corners in something that is not quite a smile — more like the suggestion of one, a quiet promise of something far more dangerous. But it is her eyes that strike deepest — two molten amber orbs that burn with a predatory sharpness. They gleam beneath her dark lashes like coins submerged in fire, frigid yet searing, watching without blinking, as though she sees more than mere faces — as though she pierces through flesh and bone to the truth beneath.

She is clothed in dark finery a deep forest green matching the pine trees in winter, her garments stitched with intricate golden embroidery showcasing her status, I can see that she is no ordinary female the strength she carries and the power she is unfathomable. A tunic of charcoal grey clings to her figure, the fabric tailored to perfection — not to flatter her form, but to armour it. Thin bands of copper thread wind through the fabric's seams, shimmering faintly as she moves, like veins of molten metal bleeding through the stone. Over this, a heavy black cloak cascades down her shoulders, the hem embroidered with golden runes that seem to shift and writhe as though written in liquid sunlight. The cloak hangs open, unfurling like wings as she steps forward, and the air seems to ripple in her wake.

Thick leather bracers wrap her wrists, darkened with age and worn from use, yet adorned with rows of gleaming copper studs — small, sharp, and precise, like punctuated warnings to any who dare come too close. Her boots rise high, laced tightly against her calves with strips of braided leather. They leave no trace in the sand — no disturbance in the earth, no whisper of her passing. It is as though her steps are not merely light, but intentional, leaving no trail for anyone to follow.

Yet her presence is more than just her beauty or her adornments — it is something woven into the very air that surrounds her. She does not carry herself as a visitor nor as a conqueror. She moves like she belongs here, like this land — this world — is merely hers to claim whenever she chooses. There is an air of ownership to her, an unspoken certainty that she could lay waste to everything before her and no one would dare raise a hand to stop her.

As she reaches the end of the ramp, her gaze sweeps across the crowd — a slow, deliberate scan that feels less like curiosity and more like calculation. Her brilliant eyes linger on no one for long, yet still manage to flay them raw in the passing. The wolves closest to her shrink back instinctively, lowering their eyes as though fearful that meeting her gaze might invite something far worse than mere confrontation. They bow their heads, not in greeting, but in submission — as if their bodies have surrendered before their minds can even comprehend why.

The space between us shrinks with each step she takes, and with it, something deeper stirs inside me — something ancient, something instinctive. It is not a fleeting discomfort or a vague feeling of unease. No — this is something far older, something primal and undeniable. It coils low in my stomach, curling tight like a rope twisting itself into a knot, pulling tighter and tighter until I feel as though something inside me might snap. It is not just dread. It is not just fear. It is something far worse — something that whispers of inevitability. 

The air around me is nippier now, not merely cool, but harsh— as though the cold has taken on a weight of its own. It ploughs into my skin, winding itself through the very marrow of my bones, burrowing deeper until I feel hollow and brittle beneath its grip. I feel it spreading through my veins, bleeding into the rhythm of my heart — not a chill that bites at the surface, but one that festers within, twisting and digging as though my body no longer belongs entirely to me.

It is not fear, not entirely. Fear is sharp and fleeting — a burst of heat that ignites in the chest and claws its way up the throat. This is something more callous, something slower — a creeping sensation that seeps into the spaces between my thoughts and smothers them. It coils behind my ribs, stirring like smoke trapped beneath the glass, stifling yet impossible to dispel. It is not fear. It is far more consuming.

It is recognition.

I cannot explain it. There is no logic to it — no reason, no memory I can call forth to justify this terrible sense of knowing. And yet I know with certainty so fierce it feels like bone against steel — this female's presence is no coincidence. Her arrival was no twist of fate, no unfortunate stroke of chance. Whatever force has brought her here — whatever dark tether has woven her path into mine — it has done so with purpose.

Her gaze binds me in place, curious yet intimidating, yet somehow far too intimate — like a needle driven through silk, piercing flesh beneath. I feel it at once, an icy lance that strikes not my body, but something deeper — something vital. Her presence is not content to merely surround me. No, I can feel it reaching — cruel fingers curling through the air, extending toward something that belongs to me. Something I cannot name, but that I know with chilling certainty lies buried deep within my soul.

And worse still... I feel something reaching back.

It lurches inside me — that same insensitive pressure I had felt before, now threading itself tighter, more penetrating. My breath stutters, each inhale thin and jagged, scraping down my throat like dry glass. It feels as though my soul itself is writhing — recoiling and yet straining forward all at once. As though two opposing forces — one within me, one within her — are locked in a cruel struggle. They resist one another, yet cannot break apart — like two magnets caught in an endless tension, pulling and repelling with equal force.

My chest feels tight, each breath shallow and sharp, as though something cold and unseen has slipped between my ribs and coiled around my lungs. The pressure sharpens — no longer a haze of power, but a blade — thin and precise, carving itself deeper with every breath I take. It winds through me like a serpent curling inside my bones, cold and invasive, dragging my will into a tightening snare.

It does not merely cling to me — it grips me. Ferocious and relentless, as though whatever force lies within her has seized hold of something sacred inside me and is refusing to let go.

My heartbeat thunders vigorously in my ears, hammering so vehemently it drowns out the sound of her approaching footsteps. It is a wild, erratic rhythm, fast and frantic — like a caged animal thrashing to break free. I can feel the panic clawing at me now, raw and desperate, yet my body refuses to move. I am frozen beneath her gaze, rooted like a tree wrapped in ice — unable to break free, unable to tear myself away.

And still, she comes closer. Each step lands slow and deliberate — like a hunter drawing near to cornered prey. Her smile widens, a brilliant gleam of teeth flashing beneath the curve of her lips. Her eyes glow brighter, their golden fire flickering with something that feels too much like triumph — like she has already won.

And I know — I know — that whatever she has come for, whatever purpose has driven her here... I am part of it.

The truth coils inside me, pungent and insensitive, curling itself around my ribs like a noose drawn mercilessly tight. It slithers through me, tightening with each breath until my lungs feel like they are shrinking beneath its grasp. Every inhalation scrapes against my ribs like jagged glass, and yet still I breathe, unable to shake the suffocating presence that has settled within me. It is more than unease — it is a dreadful, gnawing certainty, one that nestles itself inside my chest and refuses to be ignored.

This is no mere encounter. No fleeting chance of fate.

There are no accidents here — no whim of destiny that has led her gaze to mine. This — this — was written long before this moment, woven into my being like a sickness that had been waiting for the right moment to strike. Whatever twisted thread of fate has drawn her here was spun long ago, a dark, tangled cord that now coils tight around us both. And somehow — somehow — my path has become ensnared in hers.

I do not know how. I do not know why. But I know — with sickening certainty — that this bond is not one I can shake free from. It is not something I can ignore, nor is it something that can be severed without a price — a terrible, bloody price.

It clings to me like iron shackles fastened too tight, biting deep into the flesh of my wrists, cold and unrelenting. I can feel it — this unseen force that coils and knots between us, dragging me closer with a pull that feels unnatural and wrong. It gnaws at my mind, scraping like rusted nails against the corners of my thoughts, digging deeper each time her gaze finds mine. It is not fate. It is not destiny. It is something far worse — something that will rip and tear until one of us is broken beyond repair.

And still, she smiles.

Her lips stretch too wide, curling like a blade poised to strike. There is no softness in it — no warmth, no invitation. Her smile is a thing made of teeth, all sharp edges and wicked intent, a gleaming flash of danger cloaked beneath a mask of charm. Her eyes — those gleaming, glass-bright eyes — hold something twisted within them, something that writhes and seethes just beneath the surface.

I know that she feels it too — this malignant force that binds us. I see it in the restless way she watches me, as if waiting for something — waiting for me to stumble, to waver, to show weakness so she can strike. Her gaze lingers too long, like a predator circling its prey, her sharp eyes following me with that same gleam — the glint of something eager and cruel, something that knows.

And still her smile widens, her lips curling higher, her teeth gleaming like polished daggers in the dim light.

There will be no peace between us. No truce, no quiet surrender. Whatever binds us together was not born from something warm or pure — it was forged from something cold and brutal, something that thrives in the dark and feeds on suffering.

This bond is not meant to heal.

It is meant to destroy.

A/N

Hello my little wolves,

Here is the official Chapter 2 of TADEAS.

Now, who do you think this new character is? And what connection do you reckon she has with Damiane? As I mentioned before this book will not follow the normal storyline of the previous three. Do you have any idea where this is going?

You will see Tadeas next chappy!

I will now work on updating the next chappy of CRONUS 🐺

Happy reading,

LL