The High Council hall had transformed into a literal lake of blood, the copper stench of death hanging thick in the air. Amidst the carnage, the remaining Southern rebels were being systematically slaughtered by the unleashed fury of the North.
Alpha Samuel, still covered in the residue of silver burns and dragging his shattered chains, threw his massive, scarred arms around his nephew, Varg, bracing the giant wolf with a fierce, primal embrace.
"Go!" Samuel bellowed, his voice echoing over the groans of the dying.
"We will clean the rest of this filth! Track them!"
Varg's ink-black eyes burned with an apocalyptic panic. He unleashed a series of deafening commands, scattering his elite scouts into the wilderness to hunt the vanished vampires and trace Willow's magical scent. But the weight of the realization that Garm had already crawled away into the shadows pressed heavily on the room.
I couldn't focus on Garm.
