The howling wind of the Northern tundra was not just weather; it was a living, breathing weapon. It ripped through the ranks of the Southern army, biting through their heavy coats and freezing the moisture in their lungs. The wolves of the Blood Moon Pack, bred for the warm, sun-drenched forests of the South, were shivering violently, their morale shattering with every step they took into the endless white wasteland.
At the front of the vanguard stood Alpha Kaelen.
He didn't seem to feel the cold. The feral madness burning behind his amber eyes provided a sick, artificial warmth. His breathing was ragged, white clouds puffing from his mouth as he stared obsessively at the towering obsidian gates of the Winter Court. He had pushed his army to the brink of death, ignoring the whimpers of
