Meredith.
I stood frozen in the middle of it all—fire, steel, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air like mist.
The sky above was burning red, torn with smoke. Wolves howled on both ends of the battlefield, but my eyes were fixed on only one figure.
A woman.
She was tall and unbending. She was cloaked in midnight-black armour, its edges trimmed in silver like a queen carved from starlight.
Her sword gleamed in her hand, and behind her, a line of wolves—hundreds—stood like statues, waiting for her command.
She turned her head slightly. And I gasped.
Her eyes were purple. Not soft like mine, but piercing. Otherworldly, alive.
The sound of her voice echoed in my ears like thunder.
"Charge."
The wolves lunged forward in unison, their snarls splitting the air. She sprinted ahead of them, sword gripped tight, her stride long and full of purpose.
