Lyra’s POV
The Silver-Scythe emissary had barely vanished into the distant tree line before the temperature around Fenrir plummeted to a sub-zero chill.
Though his massive hand remained white-knuckled on the hilt of his broadsword, he entirely ignored the heavy iron gates and the horizon where a war was brewing.
Instead, with a frame vibrating from a suppressed, tectonic rage that forced the nearby guards to keep their heads bowed low, the Alpha King slowly turned to look at me.
His nostrils flared, his burning amber eyes searching my face as he scanned for the source of an agitation that the emissary’s arrival had only amplified. “Your scent is spiked with acid, Lyra,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration meant only for my ears. “The Silver-Scythe are gnats. They don’t
