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Chapter 2: The Council’s Shadow
Author: Husain
last update2025-09-01 12:38:34

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War

Chapter 2: The Council’s Shadow

The battlefield was silent, save for the hiss of dying flames and the caw of circling crows. Azael stood alone amidst the carnage, his sword dripping with blood, his white beard streaked crimson. Around him lay the bodies of traitors who thought they could strip him of the Sutra.

Yet, even in victory, he felt no triumph. His shoulder ached from the arrow wound. His lungs burned with the smoke of betrayal. And in his chest, the weight of an old truth pressed deeper than any blade.

The Council has moved against me.

The Council of Skarhold, those robed cowards who pulled the strings of kings, had long hungered for the secrets of the Silver Fang Sutra. To them, it was not a sacred oath but a weapon—a tool to bend nations. Tonight’s ambush was no rogue betrayal; it was a decree.

And Azael knew: this was only the beginning.

The Gathering of Wolves

Dawn broke with a sky the color of ash. Azael buried no one. He had no prayers left for traitors. With deliberate steps, he left the field of slaughter and marched toward the ruins of an old monastery on the cliffs of Galdur.

The monastery had once been a place of learning, where he, as a young physician, studied herbs and anatomy. Now it was abandoned, its stones blackened by war. Still, it was sanctuary—for within its halls waited his loyal few.

“Lord Azael,” a scarred soldier greeted him, kneeling. Around him stood barely thirty men and women, warriors who had chosen loyalty over coin. Their armor was dented, their eyes hollow, but they stood straight, waiting for his command.

Azael’s gaze swept over them. So few. Against the Council’s armies, they were nothing. Yet he nodded. “You stood when others fell. For that, you are more than soldiers. You are wolves.”

Their fists struck their chests, a silent oath.

The Message in Blood

One of the loyalists stepped forward, holding a scroll sealed in black wax. “My lord, this was found on the body of the traitor-general.”

Azael broke the seal with bloody fingers. The parchment crackled as he unrolled it. Words written in the Council’s hand seared into his mind:

“The Sutra shall be seized. The Doctor of War will fall. His knowledge belongs not to the man, but to the realm. By decree of the Twelve, his blood shall water the roots of the empire.”

Azael’s jaw tightened. Rage flickered behind his eyes, but beneath it, sorrow gnawed. The Sutra was never meant to be a weapon of conquest—it was a covenant to protect life, even if through death. And yet, the Council sought to twist it into chains for empires.

“Let them come,” Azael muttered. His voice was steady, dangerous. “If they want the Sutra, they will choke on their own blood before they touch a page.”

The Healer’s Burden

That night, as his warriors slept, Azael sat alone in the monastery’s ruined chapel. He removed his gauntlets and examined his hands—scarred, burned, still trembling faintly.

Hands that once mended wounds, now only cut them deeper.

He remembered the child again. The boy’s fevered smile. The fragile hope in his dying eyes. “You’re a savior…”

Azael clenched his fists. He had become the very opposite. Yet he could not turn back. The Sutra’s knowledge was too dangerous to fall into the Council’s grasp. He would bear this burden, no matter how many bodies it left in his wake.

A whisper seemed to drift through the ruined chapel, whether from memory or ghost he could not tell:

“To save the world, you must devour it.”

The Hunters Arrive

The next evening, horns echoed across the valley. Shadows moved at the edge of the forest below. Dozens… no, hundreds of armored men, their banners marked with the sigil of the Council—twelve black spears in a circle.

The monastery trembled with the march of boots.

Azael rose, cloak billowing in the cold wind. His warriors assembled, blades ready but faces pale.

He looked down at the advancing horde and drew his sword once more. The silver veins across its edge shimmered faintly, as though hungry.

“Tonight,” Azael said, his voice a growl that carried through the ruined hall, “we show them the cost of betrayal. We are wolves—and wolves do not bow.”

The monastery doors shuddered as the enemy army struck.

The war for the Silver Fang Sutra had begun.

[Chapter 2 Ends]

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