The wolf riders tore through the dense undergrowth, their mounts weaving between ancient trees with practiced ease. Their pace, though still impressive, had slowed considerably since their initial charge. A palpable tension hung in the air, mirrored in the dark expressions etched across their weathered faces.

Silence reigned, broken only by Thranak's labored breathing. His muscles strained visibly, veins bulging beneath sun-bronzed skin as if he were shouldering an invisible burden twice his size. His wolf whimpered softly, slowing its gait in response to its rider's distress.

Glancing down, Thranak's eyes widened in horror. His iron grip had nearly torn chunks of fur from his loyal mount. Exhaling deeply, he forced his body to relax. "I'm sorry, wilver," he murmured, his calloused hand gently stroking the creature's flank. "It isn't your fault. The blame is mine alone."

A fellow barbarian edged his mount closer, barely contained rage evident in every line of his face. "My lord," he growled, "we should return with reinforcements. They're vulnerable now – we can crush them!"

For the first time since their retreat, Thranak truly assessed his warriors. Most bore only superficial wounds, mere scratches to men accustomed to the brutality of their world. Yet the sting of defeat at the hands of mere travelers – and the capture of his sister – cut deeper than any physical injury.

Shame and self-loathing threatened to overwhelm him. How could he call himself a leader if he couldn't protect his own people? What would he tell his mother about Kaelis's fate?

"Accelerate," Thranak commanded, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "We've no time to waste. Once we return, I'll formulate a plan." He leaned back, urging his wolf to greater speed. The magnificent beast responded instantly, rising onto its hind legs before slamming its paws into the earth. With a powerful leap, it surged forward, leaving the rest of the pack in a cloud of forest debris.

The other riders could only spur their mounts onward, striving in vain to match their leader's punishing pace.

After a grueling night's journey, the edges of the village finally came into view. Thranak's heart leapt into his throat as he registered the wide-open wooden gates. "What's happening here?" he muttered, dread coiling in his gut. Aeonia was a realm of nightmares, especially after dark. All manner of monstrosities could have slipped past their non-existent defenses.

He urged his exhausted wolf forward, then launched himself from the saddle. His body rolled with the impact, muscles coiled like springs as he dashed towards the village proper. Skidding to a halt, his eyes darted to the cluster of tents on the outskirts. Empty.

Panic rising, Thranak sprinted towards the main tent, his long strides eating up the distance. He burst through the entrance, only to be hit by a wave of relief. His people were here, alive and seemingly unharmed. Yet something was amiss. Their gazes were locked in one direction, so intensely focused that barely anyone registered his return.

Stolen novel; please report.

Pushing through the crowd like a salmon fighting upstream, Thranak emerged at the front of the gathering. The sight that greeted him sent ice through his veins.

Seated upon Thranak's throne was an old barbarian, his body a canvas of scar tissue and corded muscle – living testimony to countless battles. A particularly vicious scar bisected one eye, lending him a perpetually sinister glare. Before him, a scantily clad woman performed an enticing dance, her lithe form barely concealed by wisps of translucent silk. The old man sipped from an ornate cup, his good eye roving appreciatively over the dancer's curves.

"My friend," the usurper called out, his tone deceptively light, "where have you been?"

Thranak strode forward, his jaw clenched. A chorus of "Lord" rippled through the crowd, the faint acknowledgment of his presence doing little to soothe his wounded pride. He pushed the insult aside, focusing on the immediate threat.

"I didn't expect you," Thranak said, extending his hand in the traditional warrior's greeting. The old man's smile never reached his eyes as he clasped Thranak's forearm. Their muscles tensed, veins standing out in stark relief as each man sought to assert dominance through the seemingly friendly gesture.

"I was merely keeping your seat warm while you were on your hunt," the interloper said as they separated, neither having gained a clear advantage. "Speaking of which, how did it go? I heard you went after some travelers. How many heads have you brought back to adorn our walls?"

"All of you, leave," Thranak commanded, his patience wearing thin.

The old man's laughter held no mirth. "You're spoiling the mood, Thranak. Where's Kaelis? I'm eager to see how she's blossomed. I've brought one of my sons – perhaps they'll give us some little Thranaks to carry on your legacy." His mocking guffaw was echoed by his sycophantic followers.

"Choose your next words carefully, old man," Thranak snarled, his gaze boring into the other's.

In a lightning-fast move, the elder barbarian's hand shot out, closing around Thranak's throat. "What have you done to her?" he roared, spittle flying from his lips.

The tent erupted into chaos. Swords were drawn as Thranak's loyalists faced off against the intruder's men. The air crackled with the promise of violence.

With a swift, powerful motion, Thranak broke the old man's grip. His feet hit the ground, his expression a mask of cold fury. "The next time you try something like that," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "I'll cut off your manhood and feed it to my wolf. Now get the hell out of here!"

The old barbarian's face twisted into a sadistic leer. "Don't forget why your people still draw breath," he sneered as he turned to leave. His parting shot echoed through the tent, dripping with venom. "A leader who can't handle a few travelers? Perhaps you couldn't escape and sold Kaelis to save your own skin. What a disgrace. I, for one, would never follow such a weakling."

As the last of the interlopers filed out, one of Thranak's men tentatively approached. "My lord?" he began, only to recoil from the ferocious glare Thranak leveled at him.

"Leave," Thranak growled. The remaining barbarians bowed hastily and scurried from his presence.

Alone at last, Thranak buried his face in his hands, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability. With a deep, shuddering breath, he collected himself. Retrieving his axe, he retreated to his private chamber.

The interior was a study in primal simplicity, illuminated by the flickering glow of torches that danced in the chill night breeze. At its heart stood a bed – little more than a wooden frame supporting a thick fur pelt. Nearby, a crude table fashioned from a rough-hewn slab balanced precariously atop gnarled tree branches. An assortment of coarse hair brushes lay scattered across its surface, a touch of vanity in an otherwise spartan existence.

As Thranak sank onto his bed, the weight of leadership pressed down upon him like a physical force. In the dancing shadows, he pondered his next move, knowing that the fate of his people – and his sister – hung in the balance.