Alim shook his sword, sending thick drops of blood splattering onto the cold marble floor of the royal palace.
The severed head in his hand hung lifelessly by its long, blood-soaked white hair. Its face, frozen in terror, seemed almost to mock him. Disgust twisted his features as he flung the head into the corner with a grunt, then wiped the sweat and grime from his face with the back of his hand.
He had been fighting for so long that he had lost track of the days.
The war seemed endless, stretching into a haze of bloodshed and carnage. Yet, despite the grueling toll, his body refused to falter. Fatigue might have clawed at his bones, but he would not let it win.
His inner wolf stirred restlessly, clawing at the edges of his control, urging him to shift and fully unleash his violence. The raw temptation was nearly unbearable, but Alim clenched his jaw and suppressed the primal urge. He needed his hands for this fight—they were itching to finish the job.
