They struck. Seized. Advanced.
Again.
And in every city taken, the same order held: drive the people out, take the walls, burn what feeds resistance, leave the roads open for those who run.
Mercy—under the shadow of annihilation.
By the fourth city, refugees were outrunning the war pack carrying the same story: a black-eyed Alpha had come. His wolves moved like one creature. And the border was falling.
One elder captain rode up near dusk, smoke still trailing from the last captured stronghold. "Alpha…" He pointed east, beyond the ridge. Lights. Larger than city lights.
The deeper interior.
Valeria proper.
The kingdom was beginning to understand.
And at last—it would have to answer.
--------
Far from the burning border cities, beneath stone older than any banner now flying above the war, Liora woke to pain.
Not gradually.
Not through the slow drift of ordinary consciousness.
Pain dragged her upward.
