The grand iron doors of the northern manor did not merely open; they were violently atomized by a blast of decaying, pitch-black sorcery. The fragments of reinforced oak and ancient iron studs rained down into the lower court, signaling the absolute death of the old world.
Through the billowing, ash-choked smoke, the true darkside of the world marched into the sanctuary of the Lycan race.
At the vanguard of this nightmare walked the High Vampire Clergy and the Dark Sorcerers, their faces entirely concealed beneath deeply cowled, obsidian hoods that seemed to suck the ambient candle fire right out of the air. As they advanced, they didn't bypass the fallen, paralyzed warriors of the North. With calculated, sickening cruelty, their heavy, iron-shod boots stepped directly onto the chests of the pack's most powerful Alphas.
