The Blizzard Moon Pack, once a bastion of ice-veined strength nestled in the northern tundras, now languished under a dim, perpetual twilight. The occupation had transformed its proud halls into a prison of despair, the air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and unwashed fear. Enslaved warriors toiled under the rogue leader Korrath’s merciless gaze, their bodies bent over pickaxes and shovels in the frozen mines that had once yielded silver for the kingdom’s weapons. Chains clanked like mocking laughter, binding ankles and wrists, the silver-laced links burning werewolf skin with every movement. Korrath, a hulking brute with mangy fur and yellowed fangs, paced the pits, whip cracking against backs that dared slow. “Faster, dogs!” he bellowed, his voice a gravelly snarl that echoed off
