The midnight shadow that dropped from the upper terrace was not a man, and it was not a soldier. It was the full, unbridled fury of the Blackfang lineage, an ancient, territorial wrath that had survived ninety winters of imperial starvation.
Kaelen hit the molten floor in his full Lycan manifestation—a massive, nine-foot wolf of pure muscle, midnight fur, and silver-blue bone armor that hissed as it came into contact with the boiling environment. His golden eyes were wide, bloodshot with the raw, predatory madness of an alpha who had watched his family be hunted into the absolute margins of existence.
"Kaelen, hold him!" Gwen screamed, her voice a cracked, desperate command that barely cut through the deafening structural groan of the gallery. She thrust her solar blade forward, parrying a stray logic needle that threatened to split the platform beneath them. "He's trying to slip the page! Lucien says his processing units are trying to jump the coordinates entirely!"
