The neutral zone looked like a battlefield waiting to happen. Dozens of werewolves from both packs lined opposite sides of the clearing, armed with everything from traditional claws and fangs to modern weapons. The tension was so thick Leona could taste it, metallic and bitter like blood.
Davion stood at the head of the Moonshadow formation, his alpha authority radiating from him in waves. He looked older somehow, harder, like the weight of centuries of hatred had finally settled fully on his shoulders. Behind him, Leona recognized nearly every adult member of their pack, all ready to fight and die on his command.
Across from him, Maximus Crisen cut an equally imposing figure. He was larger than Davion, more physically intimidating, with scars that spoke of countless battles. His eyes glowed amber with barely contained rage, and the Bloodclaw warriors behind him looked equally ready for violence.
