The throne room of the Blackfang capital was a cathedral of echoes, a vast, oppressive space where the history of the wolves was written in blood and stone. The massive iron doors stood ajar, held open not by any mechanical means, but by the sheer, crushing gravity of Lady Elara's presence.
Inside, the architecture that once honored the strength, courage, and feral majesty of the wolves now served as a gauntlet of frozen, blue-tinted horrors. Thousands of them stood in absolute, terrifying formation—hollowed-out husks of the Northern elite, their bodies possessed by the ancient, hungry entities of the void that had been waiting for this moment since the dawn of time.
Gwen and Lucien walked down the center aisle, their footsteps sounding like thunder in the unnatural, suffocating silence. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, stagnant magic, and the metallic, cloying sting of old, forgotten graves.
