The Northern wastes were not a land; they were a white-out grave. The wind didn't blow—it screamed, a jagged, relentless shriek that tore through the heavy layers of fur and leather Gwen wore. Behind her, the Blackfang pack moved like ghosts through the gale. They were a pathetic sight: gaunt, trembling, their fur coated in rime ice. Every mile they traveled away from the citadel was a mile deeper into the hunger of their own dying magic.
Gwen stumbled, her boots sinking into a drift of knee-deep powder. She felt the pack's suffering as if it were a physical weight on her spine. They were starving—not for meat, but for the solar frequency that only she could emit. Their golden eyes, once burning with the ferocity of the South, were flickering, turning a dull, gray slate.
"They won't last another night," Kaelen shouted over the roar of the wind.
