Third Person
On the outskirts of the Darkmoon pack, on the unclaimed lands where rogues roamed freely, was a parked black SUV with tinted windows, and by its side four hefty men stood well-armed with guns and knives. They looked more like mercenaries.
Prime Minister Caswell’s car drove up to them, then halted, and he stepped out.
Just then, the doors of the tinted SUV opened, and a man with no wolf scent or instincts stepped down. He was human in every way, but his courage on a land filled with kinds superior to him in every way had to be studied.
A man in his late thirties stepped out, his face cold and carrying a wide scar line that ran down from his eye to his jawline, a scar that made him look even more dangerous. He smelled faintly of iron and chemicals.
“Caswell…” his voice drop
