The city of Naidaska had never been quiet not even in the dead of night.
Even now, weeks after the crushing victory over the Southern Territory, the air still trembled with the echoes of war drums, the clang of steel, and the howl of wolves that had once shaken enemy walls. But the sounds were no longer those of battle, they were the sounds of a city preparing, sharpening, waiting.
Naidaska was a place of stone and fire. The walls, blackened from decades of sieges, rose high into the sky like jagged fangs, guarding the streets within. Torches burned along the battlements, their flames dancing in the cold wind that swept down from the mountains. Inside, the streets wound like a maze, lined with taverns, armories, and the heavy-bolted doors of warlords’ halls.
The White Sky Pack had made
