The atmosphere within the palace grounds had shifted from tense anticipation to a suffocating, clinical silence. Zeven stood firm in the center of the execution square, the stone beneath his feet vibrating with the collective rhythmic thumping of thousands of boots. Surrounding the perimeter, the wolf warriors of the Fenrir tribe stood shoulder to shoulder, their silver spears held aloft, catching the moonlight and turning the entire plaza into a glimmering cage of cold, sharp steel. The metallic tang of the spears mixed with the heavy scent of ozone from the nearby power grids, creating an atmosphere that felt ready to ignite at the slightest provocation.
On the balcony high above, the Alpha of all Alphas moved to the very edge of the stone railing. He did not look like a man addressing
