The great hall had become a battlefield of blood and prophecy.
Arrows jutted from shattered pews. Obsidian banners hung in tatters, their silk soaked with ash and smoke. The marble floors were slick with blood. Torches guttered low, their light swallowed by haze as wolves fought tooth and claw—steel against fur, howl against scream.
At the center of the ruin stood two figures the enemy had learned to fear.
The Alpha King.
And his Luna.
Lucian’s wolf towered over the chaos, obsidian fur streaked dark with blood, eyes molten gold. He was the storm made flesh. Wherever he moved, bodies fell. Wherever he stood, the line held.
Moonfire flared along his limbs as he crushed armor in his jaws and tore through witches who dared breach the dais. He did not hesitate. He did not slow.
Beside hi
