The plaza of the Fenrir palace had become a slaughterhouse of shadows. The spectral army, fueled by the ancient betrayal of the tribe, had torn through the ranks of the wolf soldiers with a ferocity that defied physical laws. Zeven stood amidst the dissipating fog, his chest heaving as the last of the guards fled toward the secondary defensive lines. The battle, however, was far from over. The eldest elders, realizing their hold on the palace was crumbling, had retreated into the darkness of the Misty Woods, a dense expanse of ancient trees that bordered the palace walls.
Zeven did not hesitate. He sensed their movement, a lingering trail of spiritual residue that cut through the cool, damp air like a fresh wound. With a motion of his hand, the remaining wisps of the ancestral spirits con
