At dawn, the earth shook.
Wolves rushed from the den, their howls sharp with fear. In the distance, the forest writhed with black fire, trees splitting, rivers boiling.
And then they saw him.
Ronan.
But he was no longer wolf. No longer man. His copper hair blazed with fire not his own, his amber eyes now pits of endless shadow. His body stretched taller, broader, runes burning black across his flesh. Smoke coiled around him like a crown.
He was not Alpha. Not rogue.
He was Shadow Lord.
"You should have chosen me," his voice thundered, shaking the earth. "Now you will kneel."
Behind him surged thousands—wolves twisted, hunters corrupted, beasts of the forest remade in shadow's image.
The war was no longer coming. It was here.