March in the North brought blood instead of thaw.
The borders of the Nightfog Pack had burned for ten nights straight. Smoke blanketed the skies. The war drums never ceased.
Tonight would mark the true fracture of their pack.
“Alpha Adrian Nightfang, you no longer deserve to bear the mark of Alpha.”
Alpha Silas stood atop the bloodstone altar, clad in black and gold armor. In one hand, he held the ancient sigil of the Nightfog Pack. In the other—the severed claw emblem that symbolized the Alpha’s authority.
Behind him, hundreds of wolves kneeled, heads bowed in silent allegiance.
At his feet knelt Alpha Adrian, hands bound behind his back, body broken and bloody. His eyes were vacant, lips cracked with silence.
“You let our ancestral lands fall to ruin,” Alpha Silas’ voice rang out,
