The wind carried the scent of damp earth and ashes, a lingering reminder of everything that had burned that night. In the distance, the mountains stood tall like silent giants, immutable witnesses to the conflict brewing in their lands.
It had been three months since Connor's death. Three months since his body was buried in the rogues’ camp, in land that was not his by blood, but that had embraced him as one of their own. He died fighting for them, resisting the vile attack that had dishonored Lucian’s pack. And though the rest of the world seemed to forget the m******e with ease, in the hearts of the rogues, the wound remained open.
To the other Alphas, the deaths of a few exiles meant nothing. They were wolves without a territory, without an Alpha to protect them, without a lineage to
