The world did not explode into chaos.
It collapsed into it.
One moment—breath, movement, voices.
The next—
Screams.
The corrupted wolves surged like a living plague, their bodies jerking unnaturally as they lunged at anything that moved. Their eyes—empty, glowing faintly red—held no recognition.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
"Elara!" Draven's voice cut through the noise as he tore into one of them, ripping it apart with brutal force.
It didn't matter.
The pieces still twitched.
Still crawled.
Still moved.
"What the hell are they?!" he snarled.
Elara didn't answer immediately.
Because she already knew.
Her gaze locked onto her brother, who stood just beyond the edge of the carnage, watching like a man observing a performance.
"They're not wolves anymore," she said, her voice low and steady despite the storm inside her.
"They're vessels."
Draven glanced at her sharply.
"For what?"
Elara's eyes darkened.
"For him."
