Six months had passed since the fall of the High Coven, and the world had fundamentally shifted on its axis.
The integration of the Southern Province into the Winter Court was no longer a frantic, desperate military operation; it had blossomed into a thriving, unified society. The heavy, oppressive fear that had choked the lower castes for generations was entirely eradicated. In the sprawling capital of the Northern Citadel, former omegas from the Blood Moon Pack now operated thriving merchant stalls alongside massive, heavily scarred Frost Guard veterans. Lycan pups and southern werewolf children chased each other through the snow-covered streets, their laughter echoing off the unmelting glacial ice.
It was a golden age of peace, built on the absolute, terrifying strength of King Vale
