“The air reeks of your glory and heroism, Southerner,” he growled through clenched fangs. “Who are they singing about? A General who has come to reclaim the freedom of the common folk? A protector of those who cannot fight their own battles against the relentless grasp of fate? That’s what they claim, at least... But don’t tell me you actually believe it, Southerner.”
Hadjar stood silent, his icy gaze locked with the werewolf’s yellow eyes.
“We know,” the wolf gestured to the General, then to himself. “We both know, General, that you are no hero. You are a monster, just like me. All your life, you’ve done nothing but kill heroes. And those naive souls who sing your praises don’t even realize that they are praising someone who has spilled more blood than the infamous Bloody General. Or,
