Chapter 177

• The battlefield was a nightmare of carnage and fire, a place where the cries of the dying blended with the clash of steel and the raw howls of werewolves. The once-sacred land was now a wasteland of bodies, both human and supernatural, their lifeless forms evidence of a war that should have never been fought.
• And at the center of it all stood Tristan.
• His black robes billowed like smoke, his piercing golden eyes reflecting the destruction around him. He was a man who had orchestrated war, pulled strings from the shadows, played gods and kings against one another. And now, despite all his cunning, he was losing.