Zetulah: Queen of wolves

This isn’t a fairy tale. No heroes. No lessons. Zetulah Viridian isn’t a savior. She’s the part of you that knows kindness gets you killed. And her story? It’s the question you’ve been swallowing since life first kicked your teeth in: How much worse would you burn the world to make it hurt like you do? Zetulah is just a woman with blood in her teeth and a knife, asking: How much of your soul would you sell to watch your enemies bleed? Before wolves ruled the world, war did. Four dynasties carved the realm of Varkathis apart like a carcass. Their war is no longer about thrones—it’s about erasing each other from history. For centuries, four houses ruled through brutality and broken vows: House Emberclaw (South): Flame-lit conquerors with eyes like smoldering coals. They leave only ash and children's bones behind. House Viridian (West): Healers turned hunted, their once-bright green eyes—symbols of hope, and nature—now dimmed to murky moss. Targets for slaughter. House Azzuri (North): Ice-hearted titans with gazes bluer than glacial crevices. They would let their own blood freeze before breaking an oath. House Moriba (East): Puppeteers with golden eyes that flicker like gilded lies. Stare too long, and you’ll wake up throat-cut with your own dagger. —-------- Zetulah Viridian doesn’t scream when her brother dies. She counts the seconds until his fingers go cold, the Emberclaw dagger still jutting from his throat. They don’t let her bury him. Instead, they nail Fenrik’s corpse to her family’s gates—a scroll stuffed between his teeth: “Let the last Viridian choke on her brother’s rot.” They take her title. Her home. Even her pride—carving the Emberclaw sigil into her land as a warning to survivors. But rage? Rage is the one thing they can’t carve out. Zetulah isn’t fighting for a crown. She’s fighting to keep her tongue, her liver, her green eyes from becoming Emberclaw trophies. To survive, she kneels to the boy whose family murdered her brother— Prince Kaelith Emberclaw, whose crimson gaze burns like a forge even as he bandages her wounds with surgeon’s hands, that has snapped more necks than healed them. Every time he laughs—warm and bright, nothing like the Emberclaw pyres she’s cursed—she forgets, just for a heartbeat, that she needs to kill him. War horns sound. Now, Zetulah must choose: Lead her surviving kin into the hellmouth of battle, or light the match that burns every house—hers included—to cinders. Because in the realm of Varkathis ? Mercy is the lie you tell while sharpening your blade. Power is the scream that haunts your enemies’ sleep. And Zetulah? “She’s learned how to make the world scream with her.” "You won’t like Zetulah. You’ll recognize her—the part of you that knows mercy gets you killed." Here’s what they don’t tell you about vengeance: It doesn’t heal. It addicts. You won’t love this story. You’ll hate how much you need to finish it.