The ground beneath the palace plaza did not just crack; it surrendered. As Zeven stood amidst the swirling vortex of necrotic energy, the very foundation of the Fenrir tribe groaned under the weight of centuries of suppressed resentment. The air had shifted from the crisp, cold night of the valley to a heavy, suffocating dampness that smelled of ancient soil and stagnant blood. A thick, ink-black mist began to rise, coiling around the legs of the petrified wolf warriors like living tentacles, chilling them to the bone.
"What is this magic?" a commander yelled, his voice shrill with terror. "It is not the energy of the living! It feels like the grave itself has opened!"
Zeven did not offer a reply. He watched as the mist coalesced into physical forms, shimmering, translucent figures that
