The High Council Chamber had transformed from a seat of judgment into a slaughterhouse. The marble floor, once pristine and white, was now slick with the spilled ichor of the Council's elite guards. Above, the skylights—shattered by the violent entry of the Blackfang pack—let in a swirling vortex of snow and moonlight. The temperature plummeted, but the heat in the room was suffocating, generated by the primal, desperate energy of a thousand mutated wolves.
Gwen stood at the center of the carnage, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The pack—her pack—was not the disciplined force she remembered. They were gaunt, their fur matted with frozen blood, their eyes glowing with a terrifying, hollow gold light that spoke of starvation and long, agonizing years of separation from their Queen.
They were pacing the perimeter of the hall, growling at the remaining guards, their jaws dripping with a thick, acidic drool.
