The night was a maelstrom of wrath and darkness. Every pulse boomed like a war drum in my ears as I stood on the hill watching the broken pieces of our once-united camp.
The Crescent Mark on my arm pulsed ferociously, its silver glow a beacon among the tumult, and I knew that in this last hour, all we had battled for would either be preserved or destroyed forever.
Before me, the enemy advanced—a wave of Dark Wolves and robed individuals converging from the valleys below. Their screams, icy and persistent, sliced through the darkness like shards of glass. And yet, behind me, my pack gathered in stubborn stillness, their eyes filled with both fear and hope. They trusted me to guide them through this storm; they believed in the tradition of the Crescent Bloodline, even while treachery and suffering had damaged us all.
