Hades
The countdown had begun — thirty minutes until the Bloodmoon's rise. Our forces were already in position, each quadrant led by its ambassador or governor and reinforced by two lesser Alphas.
Thanks to Eve's donation, they would hold when the red haze fell upon the world.
We were stationed in an underground command center a mile from the border. The main hall buzzed with activity — banks of monitors streaming live feeds from every sector, comm lines flickering beneath them, each tagged with the code names of the divisions:
Dawnstrike, Gallinti's line.
Frontfang, Silas'.
Shadowhunt, Montegue's.
And Ironwall, commanded by Kael — in charge of both aerial units and the defense of civilian safehouses.
The command station itself was armed — racks of wolfsbane grenades lined the reinforced walls, in case the moon drove our own soldiers feral.
I leaned over the console and activated one of the comms, pressing the receiver to my lips.
> "Dawnstrike," I called. "Do you copy?"
