Kael had always hated negotiating with Traditionalists.
They were men who still believed bloodlines mattered more than their survival.
The fire crackled low in the stone hearth of the meeting hall, it's casting warped shadows across the carved totems of old Alphas. The Wolves stared down at him from the walls. Dead ones. Failures. Traditionalists did love their ghosts.
He towered over the lot of them, His dark hair fell in wild waves to his shoulders, streaked with the faint silver of early shifts, and a jagged scar ran from his jaw down his neck—a "gift" from his father's so-called training. He looked every bit the exiled Alpha: He was dangerous, brooding, and pissed off at everybody.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back,his posture was relaxed on purpose. He'd learned long ago that his confidence had an unsettled insecure impact on packs more than his threats ever could.
