Deep in the unstable ruins of the Kronos Spire, in a sub-basement flooded with coolant and data, something stirred. A massive form, buried under tons of rubble, shifted. It was Jax. He was alive, but barely. The explosion had forced him into a feral state, a primal survival mode. His mind was a fog of instinct and pain.
He clawed his way out, his body healing slowly without the stabilizer. He was the last Lycan in a tomb of his own making. He sniffed the air, catching a faint, familiar scent on the wind—Anya, Kaelen, his pack. A low, mournful howl escaped his throat, a sound of a king exiled from his own kingdom.
He was free, but he was more beast than he had ever been. And the city outside was a new, unknown wilderness.