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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝑾𝑬𝑹𝑬 to the base of the hill, surrounded by the dismembered bodies of Morrow's carnage. She expects to see the were-wyng and his violence, but there's no pair of shadowed wings in sight. Only the forgotten, most of them terrans and nautica.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The sight of blood and corpses causes the bile to rush up Elowen's esophagus. She survived the war between Reovell and Brecia, but she never actually saw the damage that became of it. She fled before she could witness the blood pouring and souls spilling into oblivion. This new raging war declared by the high lord will be nothing that she's ever witnessed.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎This will become hell on earth.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎To think that Morrow is at the forefront of this, not even attempting to achieve peace between the two parties. Would he even try to barter with Alistair? Does she even want him to?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The dead hardly phase Arion as he claps her on the shoulder. "Do you need a bag to heave in?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen swallows hard. "Nope. I can handle it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Good, because now that you got that sword, you have to put it to good use." His eyes shine in the dimming sunlight. "You can't hesitate to kill if you have no other options."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Do you believe Morrow did all this?" Elowen asks, gesturing to the field.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"His best friend is in terran custody. He'd go batshit for any of us, but because it's Ronyn..." He shrugs. "They've always been close. He's tearing apart limb and limb to get him back."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen doesn't want to know what would happen if it were her in the hands of the terrans. Morrow already went rogue when they were still strangers and navigating their tether. Now that they've grown to accept the fate woven between them, it's a whole new unknown that they have yet to explore.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion guides her towards the army, half of them sent from the province of Yestrea in order to hinder Alistair's advance upon them.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen finds relief when she spots Oleander amongst them, her inner creature longing to hurl herself into his arms. He was the one that warned her to be wary of the royals, the one that told her to seek out Thorn. It's a form of trust that's been set in concrete.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Oleander gives her a cordial nod. "I was told by a certain someone that you found him."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She breaks into a smile. "I did, and I thought you'd be tied to Novus' throne."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"When it comes to keeping Yestrea safe, aiding the were in their endeavours to put an end to the terrans greed is a task we must take." He narrows his gaze, a lock of navy hair falling into his eyes. "Did you have success with Thorn?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Not yet. It's a work in progress," she mutters as she lifts her hands between them. "How did you know?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Oleander gives her a brisk wink. "It's in your eyes."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"My eyes?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"They tell a story of determination and resilience," Oleander says, his gaze unwavering as he meets hers. "Even amidst uncertainty, they shine with a fierce resolve. You may not see it, but I do, and it's a sign of a deeper magic that's so rare to find."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen swallows, hoping no one can hear her voice. "That's because it's ancient."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It's about time that the ones with ancient blood come out of hiding. This war we face is greater than just Alistair, and we'll need everyone to join us in the task of eliminating the evil dominating our kingdom."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"What evil? Do you mean the blight?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"That's an answer that I can't give you on my own. It's one you'll have to find."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Oleander gives her an empathetic nod before joining Arion in front of the battalion, leaving her with the lingering questions about her ancient bloodline. Instead of stewing in her thoughts, she joins the troops.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen finds herself standing beside Ember as Arion raises a fist to the sky, silencing the murmurs wrecking their way through the crowd.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"We have limited time to reach that tent," Arion bellows, pointing to the gaudy burgundy canvas tent at the crest of the hill. "Inside lies two key individuals: Ronyn Peres, beta of Tabrien, and Alistair Carrin, a pompous high lord asshole. Ronyn was captured last evening while trying to bargain for a ceasefire to buy us some time. Instead, they swindled him in silver chains, weakening his wolf in the process. We'll need to bring him back to the palace if we discover him and give him wolfsbane and nightbloom."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎One of the were sentinels raises his hand. "What if the alpha reaches him first? He's in his shifted form, isn't he?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Yes, Morrow has... shifted," Arion announces. "We have been informed to stay away from Morrow and avoid contact with him if possible. He may have the blight."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A few gasps from the were and fae leave Elowen's stomach in knots, as if she were to blame for Morrow's potential downfall.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Morrow shouldn't be a worry, though," the beta continues. "There is someone attempting to sedate him and bring him back to the palace. We should be grateful someone is willing to take the risk to calm him." Arion grumbles the final words as he meets Oleander's watch. It's evident Arion still doesn't trust Thorn, but he does hold more trust for the fae king's advisor.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Oleander steps forward. "My fae, as Arion has just instructed, we will need to reach the crest of the hill to put an end to the life of Alistair Carrin and his army. We are doing this for our neighbours in Tabrien, but also for ourselves to save us from the terrans kingdom-wide domination."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A chorus of nods and agreements wafts through the crowd, bringing a surge of courage to Elowen's bones. The terrans and nautica might have the powers of iron weaponry and salted ocean waves, but they'll be no match for bloodthirsty wolves and mystical magic.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"For Tabrien!" Arion shrieks, the were cheering at his command.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"For Yestrea!" Oleander yells.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Just like that, their little army curdles to life. Magic slings by Elowen in the breeze as mages, nymphs, pixies, and wolves charge up the foot of the hill. Beside her, Ember's fingertips ignite in tongues of fire, aching to spark whatever terran encroaches her burn. Surrounded by magic, she wishes she could call her own from its sleep, but her magic isn't fae. It's ancient. It's unknown.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen raises the sword given to her by Wyett, using her wings to give her extra boosts of speed as she joins the advance.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow needs her. Ronyn needs her. They all need to her magic. If not her magic, they need the strength of two provinces becoming one, evidence of a kingdom on the brink of change. Even she can't go back to the past she once saw as the truth. She's an ancient disguised as a fae, one who's now on her way to becoming the luna of Tabrien. She can't do it all alone, and for the first time in her life, she's realising she doesn't have to, for she's not the woman she always believed herself to be.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎These are her people, her family, her hope glimmering in her soul.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Just when their troupe reaches the camps of the terrans, just when the wolfish fangs begin to sink deep into the hearts of their offenders, her mind snaps.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She trips with a sharp gasp, her mind-link cracking into place.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Threads of her tether seer her to her feet, crippling her legs as she falls to the soil. Her inner creature anchors her there, forcing her away from the battle and into her own turmoil within her skull. Blisters form within the chasms of her mind, wounds scratched open by forced claws. A low timbre growl fills her ears, one she knows belongs to her mate. For a moment, she tastes blood on her tongue, but it's not her own. It's Morrow's.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎His sweet decadent blood.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Damn her mind-link for linking her to him at a time like this.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her vision flickers from the battlefield to the place where Morrow's wolf prowls. She expected him to be at the top, breaking Ronyn's silver chains.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Instead, he's stalking the Tabrien palace sanctum, guarding his throne and alphaship. Around him lies dead omegas from his pack, as well as a few of his gammas, all of them pierced by blades of iron.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Wyett. She sees the blonde hair of poor Wyett laying just inches from Morrow's feet, an arrow impaled deep into his heart. His blue eyes remain blank. Void. Dead.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow growls again as the haunting laughter of the high lord stings her ears.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"So this is how it'll end for the great Morrow Killian," Alistair mocks, surrounded by men and women doused in iron armour and weaponry. "I've always wanted to witness the alpha in his shifted form. Rumour has it your little wolf doesn't come out to play often, but all it takes is a little nudge."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The high lord stands in his robes made of were pelts, a sickening sight that speaks of the terran's cruelty. His beady oil slick irises match the grease whelmed into his hair. To some, he's the one paving a legacy of authority. For most, he's the sign of broken careless humanity, a perfect gemstone of terran errors. Still, they follow him and bow at his every decree as if he were a god, but instead, the Brecians only worship an illing idol.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Held within Alistair's grasp is a faded silver chain, one leashed to a half-conscious figure collapsed to his knees, bare of any fabric to clothe him from his bruises except for a pair of dirty trousers. Elowen's creature screams, recognition raging within her as she notices those hazel hues.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ronyn.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ronyn's not in the tent on the hill like they had thought, and neither is Alistair. It has all been a set up to get them out of the palace. The beta's been forced to stay at Alistair's side, an embarrassing mockery to his rank within the pack.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The alpha growls, revealing his sharpened canines dripping with terran blood. If this is how Morrow's life will end, then he'll go down defending his beta and pack.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The pack comes first.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Your precious pack won't be able to save you, and those that try don't make it very far. Isn't that right, you mutt?" Alistair croons, tugging on the silver chain. Ronyn growls in his human form, his wolf aching to fight back, but he's weaker than she's ever seen him. He almost appears... frail. "Where are your loyal were now? It's just you and me, and I assure you, I have no qualms about putting an end to your pathetic existence."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow's claws dig into the wooden floors of the sanctum, leaving marks that marr the hardwood in battle scars.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow! Elowen screams down the tether.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A growl ricochets down their bond, calming Elowen and her creature with that rumbling tone. Mate, his wolf purrs.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Alistair gestures to his accomplice, a man Elowen has seen before. The nautica lieutenant steps forward carrying a spear, this one fresh and clean of blood. Nerrocen becomes a ghost in the sanctum with the gills on his neck and his blank white eyes. His crooked, slippery smile, framed by spaced teeth, intensifies her disdain for his obedience to Alistair's commands.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"We've killed you once before, and I'll have Nerrocen do it again and again, each death more tortuous than the previous," the high lord explains. "I know you've been bargaining with the witches in Scaerus. I must say, Sybil is quite open to striking deals, so I made one with her myself. It's then I discovered that you've become their puppet on a string just to be able to live forever."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But Morrow can't live forever. Not anymore. He's consumed his share of lives, leaving his current one as his last resort. Once his heart ceases to beat, then it all comes crashing down.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And while I kill you over and over again, I'll cut your wings. They'll look good in my possession," he grins. "I'm sure the other little white-winged dove isn't far away."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow snaps, bursting from his spot and darting towards Alistair for the kill. Elowen reaches down her tether to stop him, lacing her fingers around his inner wolf just to drag him to a halt. He can't expect to live forever without receiving some sort of brutal blow, and she's afraid that he'll cross the line and kill himself.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She just got him, and she's not prepared to part with her mate.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow reaches Nerrocen first, his wolf a flurry of black shadows as Nerrocen dodges him. The spear in the nautica's clutch becomes the vice that had once killed the alpha, an iron head that will plunge itself deep within Morrow's heart. The memory of Morrow dying before her replays in her mind.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She calls down to him, her voice breaking at the seams. Morrow, don't.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Don't what? Don't fight for the were he views as his family when he has none other? Don't protect the lands that belong to him? Don't die because she's not ready to lose what she just gained?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The desperation of her voice won't stop him, and if it did, it would be done in his selfish desires.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ronyn screams something to get Morrow's attention, causing his wolf to flinch for just a moment. Morrow won't be able to save his friend from his chains, not unless he slaughters every soul in the room. Time slows as a spear hurdles straight towards where Morrow attacks Nerrocen, a bullseye to his heart.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Only, the spear never strikes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A surge of magic tosses it to the side as another being enters into the sanctum. Waves of magic force the terran battalion back, an invisible forcefield constructed out of the air. A man appears as a barrier between Morrow and Nerrocen, one whose palms glow with beams of sunlight. He's come to finish his duties.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A bead of sweat trickles down Thorn's temple, his once silver eyes now shining like diamonds. "I wouldn't be testing the alpha of Tabrien like this."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Alistair backs away, his face furrowing in putrid confusion. "Who the fuck are you?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Hand over that beta," Thorn orders, his voice a thunderous echo in the silent sanctum.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"In exchange for what?" the high lord cackles, tugging on Ronyn's silver chain. "There's few things of value you can offer me."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"What is it you seek?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Behind Thorn, Morrow releases a disgusted growl, his wings flapping frivolously behind the magic shield.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Alistair wants Morrow dead. He wants the province, his wings, her wings. But that's none that Morrow can willingly give. His best friend rests in chains, but handing over the province for his life isn't protecting the entirety of the pack.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Alistair snaps his wrist, coercing a terran solider from behind him to come to his side. He sets the silver chain in the soldier's grasp, nodding his head as they force Ronyn to bow at the high lord's feet.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The alpha knows what I want," Alistair coos. "We can settle this like civilised beings, or we can embrace the chaos. But make no mistake, I will have my way. Your pack is dying, and not even the tricks of the fae can stave off the apocalypse I have orchestrated."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow bites the air, attempting to attack, but Thorn wraps his arms around the alpha and hoists him backward. The alpha has always been strong, but somehow, Thorn's always been stronger. Even with Morrow in his wolf form, Thorn manages to keep him constrained.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"When the full moon rises, I will kill your pack for good," the high lord flashes a grin made of malice. "Your beloved moon will witness her wolves bowing to a new master—me."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Alistair stretches out his arms, drawing a reluctant applause from his men, before murmuring an oath under his breath—a sinister incantation lifted from ancient spellbooks and forbidden grimoires, a witch's curse woven into the fabric of reality.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎In a flare of smoke, the army that once surrounded the sanctum vanishes to dust, leaving Morrow and Thorn alone with a graveyard of fallen were.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The mind-link snaps, and she gasps for air, digging her nails into the soil.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion kneels next to her while the terran camp burns in flames, most likely from Ember's fury. The air smells like decay, and Elowen can't help but turn over and hurl into the soil beside her. This never ending war will take her down piece by piece, but she's not done fighting for her other half.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎When she finishes heaving, Elowen meets Arion's desperate eyes, the words lodged in the back of her throat form a whimper from her lips. "Thorn and Morrow..."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Where are they?" Arion hisses.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Alistair isn't in that tent," she cries, tears stinging the rims of her eyes. "He's with Ronyn."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Where are they, bean bag?" he asks once more, trying to keep himself calculated.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The sanctum," Elowen breathes, her voice barely audible above the roar of the flames."We need to go to the sanctum!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion doesn't hesitate to shift into his wolf, gesturing with a tilt of his head for her to hop aboard. She wishes she could fly into the air with her wings, but the dangers of doing so will only end with her wings speared by archers. She buries her fingers into Arion's tawny coat, clutching onto his large wolf as he barrels towards the sanctum. They know that time is of the essence, and the fate of their pack hangs in the balance.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎For when the full moon arrives once more, they'll all be knocking on the doors of heaven and hell.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

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writing big war scenes is not my forte, but what do you think? the terrans are now dealing with the witches of scaerus too (to help them teleport)! just remember that the terran armies are HUGE. like mega big compared to the fae and were. 

also, this isn't how i wanted to write ronyn back into the story, but he's kind of in a tight situation.

there's a lot of death, a lot of blood, and i promise you that things will eventually turn... maybe.

ivy <3