Lorraine's POV
They moved me slowly, methodically. Like I was a package, or a prisoner. The sharp edge of the blade never left my skin, not even when I stumbled once and nearly fell. The warrior behind me tightened her grip and shoved me forward.
The group parted, and that's when I saw him.
Their leader.
He was tall, towering, really. His presence alone could silence a room. His shoulders were broad, encased in thick, dark armor, with crimson lines etched in the steel like war markings. His hair, a deep, rusty red, was slicked back but wild at the ends, like it couldn't be tamed no matter how hard he tried.
And he didn't just look old, he looked powerful.
The kind of old that came with time-earned wisdom and a lifetime of spilled blood. The kind of old that had fought in wars and buried empires. His aura screamed Lycan, not just any lycan, but a powerful one. His scent was thick, dominant, and terrifyingly. There was something brutal about him. Something beastly.
