The blizzard howling outside the Blackfang Stronghold was a mere whisper compared to the cataclysmic storm raging within the Alpha's chest.
Lucien stood alone in the darkness of his private study, the only light coming from the dying embers in the hearth. His knuckles were bone-white as he gripped the stone windowsill, his claws beginning to bite into the granite. Below, the forest was a chaotic sea of shifting shadows and blinding ivory drifts, but the image burned into his retinas remained vivid, searing through his amnesia like a branding iron: Gwen, his supposedly "insane" and "unstable" servant, draped in the arms of that silver-clad warrior.
