The iron carriage rattled over the rutted mountain pass, its heavy oak wheels crunching against wet gravel and fallen pine prick. Inside the plush, dark-velvet cabin, the air was warm, thick with the scent of cedar, rich leather, and the faint, ozone crackle that always accompanied Alpha Wilrhic.
Lalaine sat opposite him, wrapped snugly in his heavy fur-lined cloak. The silver signet ring hung like a grounding weight against her collarbone. Across from her, Wilrhic loomed in the dim lantern light, his broad shoulders filling the cabin, his iron mask fixed in its eternal snarl. Yet through the narrow eye slits, the silver glow was remarkably steady, serene even, despite the impending battle.
Beta Barton rode alongside the carriage on a massive midnight-black war steed, his voice carrying
