An unbearable tension fills the war room. Marco sits at the long wooden table’s head, expression cold, with piercing eyes scanning the warriors assembled before him.
They fidget in their seats; none dare to speak first. The air is thick with unspoken fear and frustration, and a lingering whiff of blood from past battles can still be felt mild in the atmosphere.
Finally, Marco leans forward, his voice like ice cutting through the silence. “Well? Someone f*****g explain to me why there’s still chaos in my pack.”
Daryl clears his throat but hesitates. “Alpha, the Lycan prince… he’s—”
“Spit it out, Daryl,” Marco snaps, his patience clearly running thin.
Daryl flinches but pushes on. “There are signs of him in the woods. Fresh kills. Broken patrols. He’s hunting us, Alpha.”
A murmur ripp
