The forest floor was a labyrinth of shadows and slick, decaying leaves. Zeven stood upon the edge of the jagged cliff, the air here biting and sharp, smelling of wet earth and the metallic tang of the rushing river far below. Behind him, the Misty Woods seemed to hold its breath, the trees standing like silent sentinels watching the final moments of the Fenrir elders. The first elder was trapped, his legs tangled in the thick, grasping roots of an ancient tree that had been twisted by centuries of growth.
"You think you have won, Zeven," the elder gasped, his face bruised and pale. "But you are only a vessel. These spirits you call upon, they are not your tools. They are a curse that will eventually consume you."
Zeven looked at him, his expression devoid of the rage that had defined his
