Far from the safety of Redmoon territory… far beyond the forests any werewolf would willingly cross…
The air is dead.
No wind.
No life.
No warmth.
Only shadows.
Inside a crumbling stone fortress hidden beneath centuries of overgrowth, they gather.
Dozens at first glance.
Hundreds when you truly look.
Still. Silent. Waiting.
And at the center of it all—
Benjamin.
He doesn’t sit on a throne.
He doesn’t need to.
Power radiates from him without effort. Pale skin untouched by time, eyes darker than night itself—ancient, calculating, and completely devoid of mercy.
His kind bows their heads as he steps forward.
“My king,” one of them says, kneeling.
Benjamin doesn’t acknowledge it immediately. His gaze is fixed on a map carved into the stone table before him. Territories marked.
