~Lyra~
Damon leaned forward now, resting both hands on the edge of the blood-splattered table, and looked them dead in the eye.
“The rogue problem,” he said, as if the past fifteen minutes of chaos hadn’t happened. “You’ve all been ignoring it. Hoping it would fade. Hoping the weaker packs would get slaughtered before the rogues made it to your doorstep.”
He scanned their faces. Not a flinch. Not a blink. Cowards.
He looked around the table, his gaze slicing through every old man like a blade.
“You think they’re just angry exiles with no plan? Wrong. They’re building something. And from the way your border packs are going quiet? I’d say they’re almost ready.”
Some of the men stiffened. I could feel it—panic trying to rise in their throats like bile, but too afraid to come out. No one
