The next day,
Author
The mountain had no name.
It rose from the permafrost of the Northern Tundra like a broken tooth, its peak lost in permanent cloud cover, its slopes carved by winds that had been screaming since before the first wolf learned to howl. The local packs called it the Wailing Tooth and gave it wide berth, not because of any ancient curse, but because of what lived in the fortress carved into its heart.
The Volkov Stronghold.
It was not a castle in the traditional sense. It was a wound in the mountain, a series of caverns expanded over centuries into something that resembled a throne room more than a dwelling. Obsidian columns supported ceilings lost in shadow. Braziers burned with violet flame that cast no heat. And at the center, on a throne carved from crystallized
