THE LAST GUARDIAN OF GREYFENWOOD

Chapter 3: The Colonel's Throne

Amidst the hellfire consuming the Greyfenwood forest, there existed a small island of paradise.

A long dining table draped in pristine white linen stood stark against the ground freshly leveled by bulldozers. Atop it, silver cutlery glistened, reflecting the harsh glare of halogen floodlights rigging the perimeter.

The strains of the opera Nessun Dorma drifted softly from audiophile-grade speakers, vying for dominance against the distant roar of walker tank engines and chainsaws slicing through giant trees.

Colonel Elias Thorne sliced through the slab of A5 Wagyu on his plate with surgical precision. The serrated blade glided through the pink, perfectly marbled flesh, separating the fibers without resistance.

"Texture is everything, Lieutenant," Thorne said softly, sliding the morsel into his mouth. He chewed slowly, eyes closed, savoring the explosion of melting fat. "Do you know why this meat is so expensive? Because the cows are massaged. They are played classical music. They die without fear."

Before him stood Lieutenant Miller, rigid as a board. His combat fatigues were caked in mud and ash. His face was pale, cold sweat trickling down his temples. He trembled, not from the cold, but from the aura of the man lounging before him.

"Apologies, Colonel," Miller’s voice quavered. "But we’ve lost contact with Squad Bravo. Sergeant Kovic’s bio-monitor signal just... flatlined."

Thorne opened his eyes. Steel-gray irises, cold and devoid of human emotion. He reached for a crystal glass filled with 1990 Romanée-Conti—a wine worth thousands of dollars he had brought specifically to this war zone.

"Dead?" Thorne asked casually. "How? They were packing enough firepower to level a village."

"We... we don’t know, Sir. They reported a false target, then silence. Their bodies were found two minutes ago. Snapped necks. Precision stab wounds in the armor gaps."

Thorne set his wine glass down. A thin smile played on his lips.

"Interesting," he murmured. "He isn't running. He’s hunting."

Lieutenant Miller swallowed hard. He stepped forward slightly, attempting to place the report tablet on the table. However, his trembling hand brushed against the expensive wine bottle.

The bottle wobbled.

The world seemed to stop spinning for Miller.

The bottle didn’t fall, but a single drop of red wine escaped the lip, landing squarely on Thorne’s pristine white tablecloth. A tiny crimson stain, no larger than a coin, now marred the perfection of the scene.

The opera reached its crescendo. Vincerò! Vincerò!

Thorne stared at the red stain. Then he looked at Miller. His gaze wasn't one of anger, but of disappointment. Like a teacher watching a student fail to spell their own name.

"Lieutenant," Thorne sighed. He picked up a silk napkin and dabbed his lips gently. "You just ruined the aesthetic of my evening."

"S-Sir, I beg your pardon! I’ll replace—"

"Replace?" Thorne chuckled softly. He reached for a custom nickel-plated revolver lying next to his dinner plate. "You cannot replace incompetence with apologies, son. At Iron Fang, we value precision. And you... you are woefully careless."

BANG!

Without shifting in his seat, Thorne fired.

The bullet drilled through the center of Lieutenant Miller's forehead. The soldier's body was thrown backward, landing in the mud outside the VIP dining area. Blood sprayed, but fortunately, missed Thorne’s table entirely.

Thorne set the pistol back down, then resumed cutting his steak as if nothing had happened.

"Viper," he called.

A woman stepped out from the shadows of the command tent behind Thorne. She wore a black combat bodysuit that hugged her dangerous curves, her silver hair tied in a high ponytail. Her face was beautiful, but her eyes were empty—like a porcelain doll designed to kill.

Viper stepped past Miller's corpse without a glance. She refilled Thorne’s glass with elegant, steady movements.

"Clean up this trash," Thorne ordered, gesturing to Miller’s corpse with his fork. "And give me some good news. I hate eating while annoyed."

Viper placed a transparent tablet in front of Thorne.

"We have the signal, Colonel," Viper’s voice was smooth yet sharp. "The tracking drone successfully planted the tag on the subject. He is moving toward Sector 7, heading for the cave behind the waterfall."

Thorne looked at the digital map on the tablet. A red dot blinked, moving rapidly away from the river.

"Subject Omega," Thorne whispered, his tone shifting to one of admiration. "Finnian O'Connell. The bastard child of a failed experiment. I thought he was history."

"Shall I order the Gunships to level the area with napalm?" asked Viper, her finger hovering over the airstrike command.

Thorne laughed softly, then shook his head. He sipped his wine, letting the expensive liquid rinse the taste of meat from his tongue.

"Don't be stupid, darling. If we kill him with bombs, what was the point of coming all the way to this cursed forest? We don't just need the Artifact he guards. We need *him*."

Thorne stood, walked around the table, and stared out at the dark forest. Black smoke billowed into the sky, blotting out the stars.

"His blood is a genetic key, Viper," Thorne continued. "The gates of Aethelgard won't open for dynamite or lasers. That door requires Guardian DNA. If his body is destroyed, this mission is a total failure."

"So, we take him alive?"

"We take him... after we break his spirit," Thorne corrected. His eyes glinted cruelly. "He thinks he's the predator in this forest? Let's show him what a real predator looks like."

Thorne tapped the tablet screen, opening a special protocol locked by biometric encryption. A logo depicting a three-eyed dog appeared on the screen.

PROTOCOL: HELLHOUND - ACTIVE

"Stand down the infantry. They are too slow and too stupid to fight Finnian," Thorne ordered. "Release the hounds."

In the distance, near the cargo Drop Pod landing zone, a massive hydraulic hiss erupted. Several large black shipping containers began to open.

Cold nitrogen vapor hissed out, followed by a low growl that made hairs stand on end. It wasn't the sound of a natural animal. It was the sound of a chainsaw grinding against meat.

One by one, the creatures stepped out into the gloom of the moonlight.

They were shaped like Dobermans but were the size of ponies. Their skin had been replaced with carbon steel plating. Their eyes were not eyeballs, but glowing red optical sensors. Their jaws were hydraulic clamping mechanisms capable of crushing concrete. And embedded in their backs were cloaking modules and toxic spine launchers.

The Hellhounds. Cybrids—cybernetic hybrids—created from the nightmares of genetic engineering. They knew no pain, knew no fatigue, and they could smell a target from five kilometers away.

"Seek," Thorne whispered into the microphone on his collar. "Bring him to me. Sever his legs if you have to, but keep his heart beating."

The six Hellhounds raised their heads, their olfactory sensors processing the pheromones in the air. In seconds, they caught the scent of blood and river mud carried by the wind.

With a deafening digital howl, the six monsters darted into the darkness of the forest. Their speed was so great they appeared only as blurred shadows.

Thorne smiled with satisfaction. He sat back down, slicing the last remaining piece of his steak.

"The symphony begins, Mr. O'Connell," he murmured, raising his glass toward the dark forest. "Try to entertain me."

***