The rain had not fallen that night.
It had descended.
Sheets of cold water lashed against broken stone and black earth, turning the contested valley into a graveyard of mud and steel. The scent of blood had mingled with wet soil until even the wind seemed to choke on it.
Alessandro stood at the ridge line, unmoving, rain sliding down his face like melted iron.
Below, his wolves held the boundary.
Not advancing.
Not retreating.
Waiting.
Because kings did not rush.
Kings endured.
Lightning fractured the sky, revealing bodies scattered along the lower slope — some human, some not fully so. The air smelled of iron and stormfire.
Behind him, Luca's younger voice cut through the rain.
"Alpha… we can still withdraw."
Alessandro did not turn.
"If we retreat tonight," he said, voice steady against the storm, "we surrender every border east of the river."
Luca cursed under his breath. "Horse shit."
A distant howl answered from the opposing ridge.
Not rage.
Not grief.
