King Arhaan strode through the obsidian corridors of the Citadel, his heavy boots echoing like a death knell against the stone. Every guard he passed instinctively snapped to attention, their hearts racing as they felt the suffocating, oppressive aura of their King. The air around Arhaan seemed to vibrate with a cold, lethal pressure. He was no longer the man who had tenderly bandaged his mate; he was the Berserker preparing for a final, absolute slaughter.
He reached the heavy iron doors of the War Council chamber. Two Royal Guards, their armor still dented from the siege, shoved the doors open. Inside, the room was thick with the scent of old parchment and the sharp, metallic tang of moon-steel weapons.
Commander Dax was already there, his arm in a sling and his head heavily bandaged,
