The whispers of the northern wilderness did not travel on the wind; they carried on the scent of fresh blood and dry ice.
Within days of the confrontation at the Boundary Ravine, the political landscape of the territories had completely fractured. The Blackwood Pack—once the undisputed masters of the fertile southern valleys—was no more. Its lands had been absorbed into the vertical empire of the Grey Mountains, and its people had sworn fealty to a woman they had once left to starve in the ashes.
But such a massive shift in power did not go unnoticed by the other great beast-kings of the north.
In the Great Obsidian Hall of Ironspire, the air was freezing, despite the massive central hearths that roared with pine and cedar logs. Gathered at the foot of the dais was a delegation from the
