The high ridge overlooking the Shattered Shores was entirely devoid of campfires.
The Lycan army did not need warmth, and King Valerius was not about to give the Leviathan a glowing target in the dark. Instead, the dense western forest was filled with the low, continuous hum of perfectly synchronized military preparation. Weapons were being sharpened on whetstones, heavy iron chains were being unspooled from the supply wagons, and the medics were rapidly tending to the wounded under the dim, ambient glow of enchanted crystals.
Inside a hastily erected command tent of heavy black canvas, Elara sat on a wooden crate, nursing a bitter, steaming cup of southern healing tonic. The metallic taste of blood was finally gone from her mouth, but her magical core still felt bruised from the catast
