The march toward the Frozen Sea was a journey through a world that had forgotten how to speak.
Ten thousand shifters moved across the jagged spine of the Northern Reach, yet the only sound was the rhythmic, collective crunch of boots and paws against the frost-bitten earth. There was no chatter among the ranks, no bickering between formerly rival pack members, no sounds of struggle or fatigue. The Blood-Moon Pack moved with a terrifying, fluid grace, their crimson eyes glowing like embers in the perpetual magenta twilight.
They did not need commands. When I felt a flare of thirst, the entire column slowed near a mountain stream. When my legs grew heavy with exhaustion, the vanguard began to set up camp without a single word being uttered. I was the nervous system, and they were the body.
But the cost was a slow, agonizing erosion of my own mind.
