(Damien POV)
The moon was high and thin, a silver blade hanging over the valley. The outpost lay below like a sleeping animal—wooden walls dark against the snow, watchtowers lit by flickering torches, faint smoke curling from chimneys. It was a border stronghold—Darius's mark still on the gate sigil, the pack banner limp in the wind. Warriors patrolled the perimeter—shadows moving between firelight and darkness, breath fogging in the cold. I watched from the ridge—motionless, shadows pooling around me until I was part of the night itself.
This was no rogue camp. No scattered outcasts. This was organized. Defended. Loyal. The demon king inside me stirred—slow, deliberate, pleased. Tribute, it whispered. Take their strength. Take their fear. Make them kneel. The word tasted right. Necessary. I no longer questioned the hunger. It simply was.
