The Blood Moon cast an ominous glow over the clearing, turning the sacred ritual site into a place of dread. Torches lined the perimeter, their flames flickering against the bound forms of captives from rival packs. The air was thick with fear, their muffled cries swallowed by the rhythmic chants of the Blackthorne loyalists.
At the center of it all, Gideon Blackthorne stood before a stone altar, his presence commanding, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. Layla’s breath hitched as she was dragged forward, her chains rattling against the uneven ground.
“This is what true power looks like,” Gideon announced, his voice carrying over the gathered wolves. With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised a hand. A captive, a Stormborn warrior, collapsed to his knees, his body writhing in agony
