Chapter Sixty–two:
"NOOOOO!"
Amelia's scream was a raw, visceral thing that tore through the air of the vault, vibrating with a frequency of pure, unadulterated agony. It wasn't just a cry of grief; it was the sound of a soul fracturing in real-time. Around her, the remaining werewolf warriors, matted with blood and dust, tilted their heads back and let out a collective howl. It was the Dirge of the Pack, a haunting melody of loss that echoed off the cold stone walls and the blood-soaked coffin of the Blood Lord.
Varkos stood over the fallen, hollowed-out body of Luna, her extracted heart still glistening with dark ichor in his palm. He looked at the mourning wolves with a cold, detached boredom. "You... you should have never come here," he said, his voice a jagged rasp. "This place was meant to be your grave from the moment you stepped into the Golden Empire."
