The descent into the underground dungeons of the Blood Moon Pack was a journey into the darkest, most putrid bowels of southern werewolf history.
For centuries, these subterranean cells had been used to break the minds and bodies of rogue wolves, traitors, and anyone foolish enough to challenge the Alpha bloodline. The air down here was thick, suffocating, and perpetually damp, smelling heavily of black mold, ancient rust, and the terrifying, sharp tang of old blood. The stone walls wept with condensation, and the only light came from sputtering, oil-soaked torches mounted at wide intervals, casting long, distorted, demonic shadows across the uneven cobblestone floor.
Elara walked down the spiraling stone staircase, her heavy midnight-blue fur cloak dragging silently across the dust.
