The night was a tempest of rage and gloom. Standing on the hilltop overlooking the broken remains of our once-united camp, every pulse in my ears resonated like a battle drum. The Crescent Mark on my arm throbbed violently, its silver glow a beacon among the turmoil, and I knew that in this last hour, all we had battled for would either be preserved or destroyed forever.
The foe moved before me: a wave of robed people and Dark Wolves converging from the valleys below. Cold and unyielding, their screams sliced through the darkness like glass shards. Yet, behind me, my pack assembled in stubborn quiet, their eyes brimming with fear and hope. Though treachery and grief had marked us all, they believed in the history of the Crescent Bloodline and trusted me to guide them through this storm.
