While everything seemed to fall into place, nothing was truly well for the nobility of the Werewolves...
The palace was in full battle formation; no one could predict when the kingdom would be attacked, or if it would be.
The air was thick with a deafening silence, broken only by the hurried footsteps of Alexander Sucellus, the Prince of Werewolves.
As he nervously walked through the vast hall towards his father's throne room, his eyes, usually full of arrogance, were now clouded by a mix of fear and shame.
He had fled.
In front of everyone.
And now, his shame followed him like an unwanted shadow.
