I sat entirely alone in the darkness by the window until the freezing, ash-gray dawn of Alberta finally broke through the sky. My eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying, my inner sorrow flowing silently into the deepest recesses of my soul like a frozen river throughout the entire night. Looking out through the frosted glass, I could see that the preparations for the grand trials had already commenced beneath the heavy winter mist.
Deep within the heart of the forest, surrounded by ancient, towering pines, a monumental arena of stone and timber was being erected. Thousands of wolves were unfurling their clan banners, letting them whip violently against the freezing wind, while the rhythmic, metallic strike of the blacksmiths' hammers echoed across the mountains like a grim prophecy of the bloodshed to come.
But the arena inside my own chest had already been painted crimson.
