[POV: Ruvan]
The scent of wolves reached him before he could hear or see them.
He stood beneath the collapsed archway of his Citadel's outer wall, eyes half-lidded, snow clinging to the edges of his cloak. For the first time in over a month, something stirred at the edge of his awareness—not phantom whispers or demented, disjointed thoughts, but the telltale beating of young wolves' hearts.
'They come.' He thought, a victorious smirk gracing his lips.
Ruvan tilted his head toward the horizon, where the forest split into a frostbitten trail. The wolves were not of his bloodline, not of his era. They carried no banner and bore no mark of his reign. And yet, here they were—trespassing.
"Perfect." He wore a smile that didn't reach his eyes, his pointed canines exposed.
Three of them.
They were young, which was perfect. He needed able-bodied wolves to help his cause.
