Batzorig’s powerful frame convulsed, his breath catching in ragged, rattling gasps. The green vapor, thick and sweet, swirled around his face, forcing his eyes shut. His hands clawed at his throat, not in desperation, but in an almost instinctual battle against a foreign invader. His shoulder muscles knotted, his dominant posture collapsing into a slack heap. He dropped to one knee, then another, his head hanging, tremors rattling his heavy frame against the flagstones. Zhalia watched, a detached observer. So, this was the ‘elegant solution.’ Stripping the wolf from the host. She felt a faint tingle, a distant pressure against her White Wolf spirit, like a gnat buzzing against a reinforced windowpane. Annoying, but not threatening. This whole situation felt like another exaggerated Alpha tantrum, just with more elaborate stage props and a slightly more noxious scent. “Oh, for the love of the Sun-Wolf,” she muttered, a low growl rippling from her chest, a sound that vibrated with power the neurotoxin couldn't touch. “Can’t we just have one simple, straightforward confrontation without the theatrics?” She took a deliberate step forward, the green mist parting around her as if in deference to a superior force. Batzorig whimpered, a guttural sound that tore from his throat as he finally collapsed, his massive body crumpling like a discarded cloak. He deserved a bruised ego for his ceaseless barking, but letting him suffocate would solve nothing. But she needed him conscious to serve as a witness, to see his world shattered by a truth far more chilling than mere chemical warfare. She knelt, placing a hand on his forehead. The neurotoxin, which was a slow, creeping poison for Batzorig, was simply a mild irritant to her. Her White Wolf spirit stirred, pressing outward with arctic force. The frigid essence of the Targatai peaks, the very heart of winter, pulsed outwards. The sweet, green vapor solidified. Not into liquid, but into shimmering, emerald crystals that glittered and fell, clinking against the vats. The air cleared, crisp and cold, leaving behind only the metallic tang of ice. Batzorig coughed, his eyes fluttering open to stare at the crystalline dust covering his fur. “Get up,” Zhalia commanded, her voice firm, devoid of warmth. “We’re leaving.” Batzorig blinked, clearing white frost from his lashes, and obeyed. He struggled to his feet, still wobbly, leaning heavily against a vat. Iskra, who had been coughing harshly moments before, now stood straight, her gaze fixed on Zhalia with a mixture of awe and terror. The neurotoxin had been neutralized, leaving only the icy residue of Zhalia’s power. “The doors,” Iskra rasped, pointing a trembling finger at the imposing steel blast doors. “They’re reinforced. We can’t open them.” Zhalia merely eyed the metal. “Such drama. They always make things so difficult.” She extended her hand, not with a flourish, but with the weary air of someone swatting a persistent fly. The White Wolf’s power surged, coalescing into a shimmering, blue-white light that slammed into the doors. The reinforced metal buckled, groaned, and then, with a sound like a glacier fracturing, exploded outwards in a shower of jagged, frozen shards. The air outside was abruptly much warmer. “Right,” Zhalia said, dusting off her hands. “Move.” She grabbed Batzorig by the arm, slinging his still-recovering form over her shoulder with disconcerting ease. The Alpha, a creature of imposing stature and immense muscle, hung like a sack of potatoes, his face pale and bewildered. Iskra darted ahead, weaving through the debris, her knowledge of the Spire’s hidden passages proving invaluable. They navigated a series of dimly lit service tunnels, the sounds of distant alarms now a frantic, urgent chorus. As they burst into a wider corridor, they collided, quite literally, with Korzha. He was stumbling along, a frantic, wild-eyed expression on his face, his tattered clothes smeared with what looked suspiciously like pie crumbs. His eyes, already bloodshot from constant weeping, strained open as he took in the scene: Zhalia, effortlessly carrying his terrifying older brother like a prize boar, radiating an unearthly calm, while Iskra, the woman he’d chosen over her, smirked triumphantly beside them. “Z-Zhalia?” Korzha stammered, his voice cracking, the last vestiges of his dignity crumbling into dust at his feet. His Alpha aura, what little was left of it, shriveled into nothingness. The image of Zhalia, the 'wolfless outcast,' now a force of nature casually bearing his colossal sibling, was a blow from which his fragile ego could never recover. He collapsed to his knees, not in supplication this time, but in sheer, utter despair. “Oh, look,” Zhalia drawled, not breaking stride. “It’s the drama magnet. Are you done playing in the kitchens, or are you here to beg for a tissue?” Iskra didn't even acknowledge Korzha. Her attention was fixed on a recessed panel in the corridor wall. Her fingers danced across its surface, a series of precise, rapid movements. A soft *thunk* echoed, and a small, green light blinked. “The main vault feed is open,” she announced with flat satisfaction. “My clan is siphoning the grain and meat reserves now. They’ll have enough to survive winter.” Her eyes met Zhalia's, confirming the theft without a flicker of remorse. Zhalia nodded, unimpressed. “Good. Now let’s get this over with.” They rounded the final corner, the corridor emptying into the sprawling, moonlit courtyard of the Khurultai Spire. Soot from pitch torches drifted across ranks of armored warriors. A host of elite guards, their eyes glazed over, stood in silent formation, their movements stiff and unnatural. And at their head, Elder Enkhtur, his robes pristine, a serene, almost beatific smile gracing his lips. He looked every bit the wise spiritual leader, entirely too calm for a man whose eugenics lab had just been destroyed. His gaze settled on Zhalia, then Batzorig, still draped over her shoulder. His smile stretched further, placid and rehearsed. “Zhalia, my dear,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard, “You’re just in time for the Blood-Rite.”

Breaking the Blast Doors