to the cry of drums

Winter had wrapped the Armada deep in its clutches, and a layer of snow lay across the open field of the Col. The new fall was soft beneath his paws, and his tracks were the first as the Warlord made his slow approach to the Obelisk and the firepit beyond. The fire struggled in the cold, flickering and shallow. He added fire and breathed gently into it until it flared once more. The melt around the pit increased, and he took a seat near it. There was no need to elevate himself when he was already the tallest in the pack.

The monstrosity of a wolf waited for Hazel to join him by the firepit, before he raised his head. Calling out for the pack, for its warriors. For those whose strength he knew would fuel this fight to come.


"Basilisk"