After a few weeks, the war had finally came.
The battlefield stretched out beneath a darkening sky, its flat, cracked earth trembling under the weight of approaching war.
Wind swept through the tall banners of both armies, whipping them violently as if nature itself anticipated the blood to be spilled. Thunder rumbled in the distance—not a storm, but the march of thousands.
And at the head of one army stood Rhett.
Clad in deep silver armor that gleamed like starlight, Rhett was the picture of sovereign strength. His long crimson cape snapped behind him, each fold catching light as if it had been soaked in flame.
His jaw was set, his dark eyes cold and focused, unreadable. He didn't shout, didn't wave his arms. He simply stood, tall and sure, like a pillar carved from stone.
Around him, werewolves straightened. Hearts steadied. Fear ebbed. There was no uncertainty in his presence—only inevitability.
Beside him stood Talia.
