Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

The night came and went, but Zairen never closed his eyes.

He lay still in the carriage, eyes half-open, his father's sword resting beside him like a coiled beast. His muscles were tense, breath steady, thoughts sharp as a blade's edge. If the guards thought sleep softened him, they'd pay in blood. He'd meet their betrayal with steel and fury.

But the night stayed silent. No whispers. No knives. Just stillness.

Dawn crept in, its pale light bleeding through the carriage window. The world outside was gray and damp, shivering from last night's storm. The carriage rolled on, slow and grim, through the muddy wilds like a coffin dragged to its end.

No food. No stops. No words.

Zairen sat cross-legged, mana flowing through him like a restless river, warm and alive. He let it stir, testing its strength, letting it touch the earth below. His veins hummed as the power pulsed, hungry and sharp.

Then—thud.

The carriage jolted, nearly throwing him into the wall. His sword rattled. He yanked the curtain aside, voice cold. "What's wrong?"

Jarnel, a wiry guard with hollow cheeks and frostbitten fingers, turned in his saddle. "Master Zairen, the road's blocked. Landslide. Boulders and trees down from the rain. We'll need to reroute. Can't camp here… not with the wolves."

Zairen stepped out, boots sinking into the mud. The road ahead was a ruin—jagged stones like shattered bones, tree limbs twisted like corpses. He narrowed his eyes.

"Move, then," he said, voice cutting. "Reach the nearest village by dark. These wolves… they don't hunt by scent. They hunt by fear."

The guards muttered, faces tight. The carriage turned, hooves squelching. The trees closed in, their branches curling like claws over a dying heart.

Zairen sank back into meditation, mana seeping into the earth like a quiet poison. And he heard them.

Whispers drifted through the trees.

Three guards crouched behind a cluster of pines, thinking themselves hidden.

Jarnel's voice was low. "Should've done it last night. Slit his throat in camp. Blame the beasts."

Merek, broad and scarred, sneered. "Would've been quick. Clean."

Captain Helran, with a jagged beard and eyes like burnt coal, spat into the dirt. "Blood calls them, you idiots. Beasts smell it miles off. One death brings a hundred, especially now—rain's ruined their dens. We're in their graveyard."

Raal, the youngest, gave a nervous laugh. "Still, boss, you think sharp."

Helran growled. "I think like a man who wants to live."

Zairen's lips curled in the carriage's dark. Names now—Jarnel, Merek, Helran. And he knew their fear.

Let them fear more.

By dusk, they reached a village. Wooden walls loomed from the mist like the ribs of a dead giant. Torches flickered, shadows twisting. Four guards stood at the gate, lanterns raised, eyeing Helran's sigil—a bleeding eye crossed by swords. They nodded, and the gate groaned open, stirring something old and angry.

Inside was a dream too soft for this world. Candles glowed in windows. Laughter spilled from a tavern. A bard's flute wove through the air. Children tossed stones by a well. Families shared bread. Guards strolled, carefree.

Too peaceful. Too fragile.

Zairen watched from the carriage window. This village clings to calm, to warmth. But what's the use of peace that blinds a man, that softens his heart until he forgets the blade?

They stopped at a tavern in the village center, its firelight warm, the air thick with roasted meat. The keeper, a red-haired man with heavy arms and tired eyes, greeted them. Horses were stabled, food served.

Zairen sat with the guards, silent, his fine clothes and sharp eyes setting him apart. Villagers glanced—some with awe, others with fear. None came near.

He ate little, drank less, then went to his room. Sleep was a stranger.

A howl ripped through the night.

Low, then rising, it clawed at the soul. Zairen's eyes snapped open. He was at the window in a heartbeat, sword in hand, its runes glowing faintly.

Another howl—deeper, hungrier. Then more, dozens, hundreds, a chorus of dread that shook the air. Lanterns flickered outside. Windows slammed shut. Screams rose from the streets.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

A frantic knock. "Master Zairen!" Jarnel's voice, raw with panic.

Zairen opened the door. Jarnel stood there, face pale as death. "We have to go! The wolves—they're here. Not dozens. Thousands. This village won't hold. Not even an army could stop them. Run!"

Zairen's heart stayed cold, his eyes empty. Could he fight? Yes. Could he win? Not tonight. Not yet.

And why should he help these villagers? They were innocent, sure, but innocence didn't mean strength. Those with power had a duty to protect, some said—lame hero nonsense. Zairen thought different. Every man had the spark to rise, to grow strong, to fight. But these people? They chose weakness, chose to bask in soft peace. If he saved them, what would he gain? Nothing. They'd only lean harder on others, growing softer still. And a first-circle magi youngling like him—what could he do against a tide of beasts?

He followed Jarnel, sword in hand, down the stairs, through the empty tavern, into the cold. The stables were chaos—guards scrambling to saddle horses, hands shaking, faces drained.

The howls grew louder, closer. The village gate groaned, wood splintering as something massive slammed against it. The air stank of blood and fear.

Children wailed. Doors burst open. Villagers ran, dragging the old and weak, barefoot in the mud.

Too late.

Zairen mounted his horse, grip tight on the reins. A final scream echoed as the gate shattered like dry twigs. A black-furred maw, big as a bull's skull, tore through a guard in one bite. Flesh and bone vanished into that gaping jaw.

The knight wolves had come.

Zairen spurred his horse, the guards behind him. As they fled, he glanced back. Yellow eyes glowed in the dark, a sea of them, moving like a flood. The village burned in their wake, screams swallowed by the night.

He faced forward, sword still in hand, eyes half-closed, hiding a mind sharp as steel. Let the people think I'm a coward, but a coward stays alive. And Zairen knows.

The wolves—knight or not—would learn what he was soon enough.