Meanwhile, across the plains far from the king's cruel court, the battle for the northern ridge raged.
Kieran stood amid the chaos, panting, sword slick with blood, fur matted and torn from multiple fights. His golden eyes burned like a living fire. Around him, wolves circled defensively, holding the broken road leading into the heart of the kingdom.
"They're pushing from the north harder than before," one of his generals, Tobias, growled, shaking blood from his claws.
Kieran's jaw clenched. "They've shifted tactics. That means someone's giving orders."
He looked toward the broken spires of the capital, grim understanding blooming behind his burning gaze.
It was the king. He was close.
Thunder rolled across the sky, the storm a herald of something worse yet to come.
And far beneath that storm, Marcus remained bound, breathing shallowly, waiting—for rescue, for hope, for war.
