Weeks had bled into months, the war between werewolves and the creatures of the night escalating to a fever pitch that left the land scarred and howling. The lunar eclipse loomed three days away, a blood-red omen in the sky. Every allied pack—Crimson, Eclipse, Shadow, Ember, even the fractured remnants of Blizzard—had tasted victory and defeat. Villages burned under vampire raids, bunkers held against rogue sieges, forests ran red with blood. Yet the will to fight burned brighter, fueled by new life: pups born in hidden dens, omegas guarding swollen bellies, the promise of a future worth dying for.
Lilith, heavy with child, moved through the royal packhouse like a storm contained in flesh. Her pregnancy neared its end, her belly round and taut, the hybrid pup kicking with fierce strength
