The sun was barely above the horizon, a bruised, pale orange against a muted sky, when the twin Alphas, Kyson and Xander, arrived at the desolate gate of Lyra’s old pack. The air, crisp and biting, seemed to carry the lingering scent of neglect.
The land itself was a stark, depressing contrast to the vibrant, teeming forests of Bloodfang. The trees here felt stunted, their branches skeletal against the dawn sky, as if growth was an effort. The air was too dry, devoid of the rich, earthy aromas Lyra had grown accustomed to.
The pack house, a forlorn structure, appeared smaller, aged not by noble history but by time and chronic neglect. Everything about it smelled stale, a clinging odor of dust, decay, and stagnant despair.
“Charming place,” Xander muttered, his voice laced with a dry, s
