Where my former pack had built spires of white stone and ritual gardens under permanent moonlight, Blackfang rose from volcanic rock and ancient forest, its citadel carved directly into the mountain’s heart. No crystal towers. No decorative shrines.
Only iron gates, obsidian walls, and magic thick enough to taste.
They led me through tunnels lit with ember-veins that pulsed faintly like a living beast beneath the stone. My wolf paced restlessly inside me, bristling at every territorial marker we passed.
This land did not welcome submission.
It demanded survival.
At the citadel’s core, the sentinels halted before a set of double doors forged from blackened steel and bone.
“Wait here,” the ash-gray female said.
I did not have the energy to argue.
Minutes stretched into an hour. The soul-vessel at my chest grew colder, Papa’s flame flickering erratically.
Panic clawed its way into my lungs.
I pressed both hands over the crystal. “I’m here,” I whispered. “Don’t leave me now.”
The doors opened.
Nicero Blackfang stood in the threshold, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied back with a leather cord. His presence filled the corridor before he even spoke—predatory, unyielding, impossible to ignore.