The Dead Marshes were no longer a wasteland of mud and mist; they had become a theater of shadows.
Kaelen knelt in the black muck, his breath hitching in ragged, wet gasps. The wound in his shoulder—the mark of the Void-Hound—wasn't healing. Instead of the rapid, steam-venting regeneration of an Alpha, the flesh was turning a dull, matte grey. The infection was moving like ink through a bowl of milk, tracing the lines of his veins toward his heart.
"You are a rare specimen, Valerius," the Trader said, circling Kaelen like a vulture. The crow-feather cloak rustled with a sound like dry leaves. "A wolf without a moon, fighting for a queen who hates him. Most men would have laid down and died in the first five minutes."
Kaelen gripped his silver blade, though his fingers were numb. "She...
