The Hound stood alone on a cliff overlooking the Middle Realm's trade routes. Below him stretched the paths of merchants, caravans, and hunters — the endless flow of lives ripe for prey.
Wind howled through the night, tugging at his cloak. His blade hummed faintly, a predator eager for blood.
But the Hound did not move. He waited. He always waited, listening for the call that never came late.
And it came, soft as a whisper carried on the wind.
The Matriarch's voice, in his mind, born of a bond forged in blood.
"Find me more. The clan weakens by the day. I will not let the wolf die."
He bowed his masked head to the empty sky.
"It will be done."
Then he moved — not as a man, but as a shadow sliding across the realm. He did not sleep, did not falter, did not question. He hunted where others would never dare.
The Hound was no mercenary. He was no bounty seeker.
He was the leash and the fangs of the last wolf alive.
And now, his mistress had given him his most important command yet. A frenzy in the Trade Realm. A group of children. One of them with eyes like fire.
The Hound's hunt had truly begun.