The Silverwood Pack had been waiting for days at the edge of the disputed territory, a stretch of rocky highland that had seen more bloodshed than any other piece of land between the West and the North. The wind howled across the open plains, carrying the sharp bite of coming winter and the distant scent of pine from the northern forests. The camp was a collection of worn leather tents, pitched haphazardly among clusters of gnarled trees that offered little shelter from the elements.
Magnus Sinclair stood at the edge of the camp with his arms crossed over his chest, his heavy fur-lined cloak pulled tight against the cold. His boots were caked with mud, his hands rough and calloused from years of fighting. He had not slept properly in days, and it showed in the dark circles beneath his eye
