Morning came slowly across the territory of Regina, and though the rising sun spilled pale gold across the pine forests and stone walls of the manor grounds there existed no peace within the air, for the entire pack had already gathered around the ancient arena where generations of dominance trials had once decided the fate of wolves far stronger and far crueler than the young warriors now standing at its center.
Two lines of restless noise circled the arena.
Boots scraped stone.
Wolves whispered.
The round combat ground lay below like a scar in the earth, carved by claws and blood through decades of brutal challenges, and the dark soil still carried the scent of old battles that refused to fade.
Victor Salazar stood at the southern edge of the arena.
Three lines of quiet focus tightened his posture.
His sleeves were rolled.
His breathing slow.
