The march of the Winter Court was not like the chaotic, rabid stampedes of the southern packs. It was a terrifying, synchronized force of nature.
Two thousand Lycan warriors of the elite Frost Guard moved across the continent like a localized blizzard. They rode upon massive, armored dire wolves—beasts of ancient lineage that stood as tall as draft horses, their paws completely silent against the frozen earth. At the absolute center of this unstoppable avalanche of muscle and steel rode the King and Queen of the North.
Elara sat tall astride a magnificent, ghost-white dire wolf named Wraith. She was clad in her reinforced royal leathers, a heavy cape of midnight-blue fur spilling over the back of her saddle. Her silver-grey hair was braided tightly against her scalp, keeping it out of
