Fenris Blackclaw’s camp wasn’t a camp…it was a kingdom in waiting.
Carved into the side of a mountain fifty miles north of Veyrath territory, it sprawled across the valley like a scar. Hundreds of wolves moved through the makeshift streets, their eyes gleaming red in the perpetual twilight that seemed to hang over the place like a curse.
Because it was a curse. Ravenna’s work.
The sky above the camp never fully lightened, trapped in a permanent state of dusk that made everything look slightly wrong. Shadow magic, ancient and unstable, warping reality itself. It made the wolves stronger, faster, more vicious but it also made them dependent. Leave the cursed territory, and they’d weaken. Stay too long, and they’d lose themselves completely to the madness.
A fair trade, in Fenris’s opinio
