The massive, blood-dripping paw of the Alpha sovereign hovered in the freezing air, its silver aura humming like a death knell over Baron's shivering, white-shrouded form.
The thousands of gathered wolves from the East, West, and North watched with an insatiable, hungry appetite in their eyes. They weren't just waiting for an execution; they were waiting for the fulfillment of the ancient, blood-stained Lycan prophecy—the absolute eradication of an illegitimate, undead wolf born from high treason.
To them, power allowed no shadows. A bastard immortal was a biological abomination, a political threat that needed to be crushed into the dirt before it could even draw its first cursed breath under the Northern sky.
"Do it, Alpha!" one of the senior elders from the Western border muttered, his voice carrying an eager, bloodthirsty tremor. "Crush the line of treason! Purge the soil before the abomination takes root!"
But Varg didn't strike.
