Warhound

Prologue

The mountain wind whipped at the flames, making them dance and crackle within a brick fire pit. Their light glowed orange in a pair of large, dark eyes, tiny mirrors of fire flickering in their depths. Those eyes belonged to a massive hound — a beast who, if he stood upright on his hind legs, would tower over six and a half feet tall. His muzzle was touched with silver hairs of age and lined with the scars of battles, some won and others lost. Drooping ears and heavy jowls lent him the weathered dignity of an old bloodhound.

He lifted his gaze from the warmth of the blaze to the cold glitter of stars above, regarding them as if they were old friends, before letting his eyes fall back to the pups gathered across from him.

"This, children," he began, his voice low and steady, "is a story of creation. The very first story of our kind. The story of how Warhounds came into existence."

His deep, gravelly voice lingered on the wind, wrapping around the pups who leaned in close, eager to catch every word.

After a moment's pause, he continued, his mouth curving in a subtle, pleased smile at their rapt attention.

"Fifteen hundred years ago, mankind had no throne, no crown, no dominion. They were prey, scattered among the monsters of the world. Vampires, werewolves, Elvish folk — these were the rulers then. And mankind, desperate and afraid, prayed to their creator, a goddess known as Maerthis, the Mother of Men."

He paused again, letting silence thicken the air, until the pups leaned forward with impatience and raw intrigue.

"But their prayers fell on Maerthis's deaf ears. She wanted her humans dependent, begging and pleading for her favor. Yet Orivane, her lover — God of Beasts, Metamorphosis, and Decay — heard their cries and chose to act. He took their dogs and reshaped them into creatures of human-like sentience. He made them bipedal, able to think and speak as their masters did. He made them not just pets, but true companions — creatures humans could call friends, not property. He created us."

A collective inhale rose from the pups on the log opposite the elder, and he chuckled softly, leaning back as he drew his woolen cloak tighter against the bite of winter wind. His back paws crunched in the snow as he shifted his weight.

"When Orivane created us, he gave us to the humans with only one command: protect them with love and loyalty. Be their shoulders, their guardians, their truest friends. And protect them we did."

The elder's eyes softened in the flickering firelight, a shadow of sadness edging his gaze as it drifted to the glowing coals.

"For a thousand years we fought at their side, died for them, and raised mankind to where they stand today — ruling provinces, with the creatures they once feared now serving in their armies. The Warhounds are the reason humans still walk this world." He huffed, white vapor curling from his nose into the night.

"But once man stood on top, they began to turn. Treated us as the pets we once were, not the companions we had been made to be. Believing themselves above all who were unlike them — even the very beasts who had given them their throne. And when we resisted, they cast us aside like scraps from a meal gone cold. Banished us to the edges of their lands, left to survive alone — though we had never known a life without man."

"Humans sound awful," piped a small voice at last. It came from a golden-furred pup, wolfish in shape but blockier than most, his straight ears pricked high over a square muzzle. His oversized paws shifted restlessly in his lap as he gazed at the elder.

Beside him, a storm-gray pup with pale eyes fidgeted endlessly, as though ready to leap into the snow at a moment's notice. On the other side, a black-pelted pup sat unnervingly still, his sharp gaze fixed on the elder as if weighing every word.

But it was the golden one's amber eyes — wet with tears he blinked away quickly, unwilling to show weakness before the battle-worn elder — that caught the elder's attention.

The old hound studied him for a long moment, his weathered gaze steady and unreadable. Then he leaned forward, the firelight catching in his scarred muzzle.

"Perhaps, Jaxomere," he rumbled, "it will fall to pups like you to remind the world what it means to be a Warhound."