The wind that rolled down from the high passes was sharp with iron and ash.
It carried no scent of pack or prey—only the cold echo of blood.
At the edge of the border, far beyond the Heart Tree and the flickering torches of the Flameborn Court, a figure watched from a ridge as wolves trained below in a valley cloaked by stormclouds.
They didn't howl.
They didn't speak.
They obeyed.
"We're growing stronger," said a voice behind the figure. Soft, female, and deadly. "They follow now without question. Even the old rogue clans are bending knee."
The figure said nothing.
A gust of wind lifted his hood, revealing a face marked by ritual scars—an old mark of the Syndicate, etched deeper now, pulsing faintly with red light. But it was not the same Syndicate that had failed to claim Elara's bloodline.
This was a rebirth.
The figure turned, eyes as black as coal, rimmed with molten gold.
"We don't just need numbers," he said. "We need fear."
