The wind in Drakwyne was always dry. It carried the smell of rot, old stone, and the sharp sting of the dark magic that lived here long before any of the civilized wanderers were born. The open space was surrounded by high walls made from uneven blocks of ancient stone. Some were cracked. Some were broken. A few had markings, dark runes, and ancient writing. The place had once been a building that collapsed centuries ago during the war between the dark shadows and hunters. No one bothered to rebuild it. The ruins served their purpose.
At the center stood a wide altar built from dark stone. The edges were chipped. The surface looked smooth only because of how many lives had touched it. A young male wolf lay tied on top of it. His wrists and ankles were bound with thick restraints made from metallic chains. His eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell steadily. He was alive.
