The air in the Great Hall of the Crimson Fang was no longer oxygen; it was a pressurized mixture of ozone, ancient magic, and the metallic tang of blood. The sound was a deafening assault, the wet 'shred' of silk being pushed aside by erupting fur, and the guttural, mindless roars of a hundred high-ranking wolves forced into a primal state they could not control.
Sienna was a blur of frantic movement, her silver gown torn at the hem as she clawed at Lucien's shoulders. "Get up, you useless fool! Lucien, move!" Her voice had charmed the Blackfang council, was now a jagged glass shriek. She wasn't looking at him with love; she was looking at him like a failing investment.
Gwen stood at the epicenter of the hurricane. While the world around her dissolved into fur and fangs, she remained a statue of silver and gold. She didn't flinch as a massive Beta from the Northern Reach transformed just inches away, his claws gouging deep furrows into the marble floor.
