The moon hung red above the Blackpine Mountains, bleeding its light across the snowcaps and the dark forests below. The world had gone still — unnaturally still — as though even the wind refused to disturb what was stirring beneath the surface.
Far below that stillness, within a cavern carved by centuries of fire and decay, the Rogue Alpha King knelt beside a pool of black water. His breath came in slow, controlled draws, his massive frame taut with anticipation. Around him, the scent of iron and old blood filled the chamber.
The water rippled. Not from movement — from heartbeat.
He pressed a clawed hand to the surface, watching the reflection shiver. The image staring back was his own: eyes glowing molten gold, half-shadowed by the curse that had once turned him rogue. But beneath that
