Elsewhere—thousands of kilometers south of the high walls—stood a mountain where the moon never failed to reach. A mountain called Fangclaw. Vast in both size and height.
Its base stretched as wide as a small country, formed from molten rock, piles of sand, and stone. The entire formation took the shape of a perfect cone—though its surface was jagged, harsh, and utterly lifeless.
At the highest peak of Mount Fangclaw, a city-sized plateau rose into the sky. It sloped downward like the curve of an ocean basin, its circular sides layered with tiered buildings made of wood and stone, stacked one above the other like ancient columns.
There were traces of vegetation—but not from planting. No gardens, no cultivation. Only the growth born from the rotting remnants of raw flesh. A natural consequence of the carnivorous beings who called this brutal terrain home.
Werewolves.
