Mirov appeared in front of an old, weathered mansion that stood alone in the woods, its windows covered with dust and vines creeping along the stone walls. The air was heavy, silent except for the low rustle of the wind brushing through the trees. He didn't need to knock. The moment he stepped onto the cracked steps, the doors creaked open on their own.
He walked in quietly, his boots echoing against the marble floor. The mansion smelled of age and faint smoke, like the ghosts of fires long burned out. Inside, in the wide hall, five old men sat in a circle around a large wooden table. Their faces were lined and hard, eyes yellow under the dim light. The room felt ancient — full of strength, authority, and a kind of unspoken tension that only wolves carried.
When Mirov entered, all eyes turned to him.
One of them, his beard gray and thick like winter frost, leaned forward. "How did it go?"
