"So, the plan failed?"
High on a throne sat a man. He wore a black suede mantle coat that was soft and glinted with a dark sheen. His jet-black, flowing hair, which hung straight down his shoulders, swayed gently with the slightest movement of the air, as if the shadows of the night had settled upon its ends.
His gray, almost translucent eyes, like frost and mist in the early hours of winter, shone with a chilling coldness. His thin lips were pursed, and the lines were firm and clear, betraying not a hint of emotion, adding a touch of majesty and mystery.
This man was the new wolf-king of the West, Elijah.
He was emaciated and had slender fingers, but possessed strength enough to crush rocks, a testament to the Wolf King and a symbol of his power. He sat on his throne with a calm and dignified demeanor, like the brightest star in the night sky, cold and remote.
