Dorian Delanivis arrived at the base of Mount Saede with his white wolf army. Quite a sight, really, tides of pale fur and polished steel washing over the scarred land.
The journey should've been a tense, cautious skirting of a rival's volatile border. But now, it was a triumphant march. Leading the blanket of white west was no longer a concern.
For a full hundred years, his people had lived in the long, cold shadow cast by the Black Wolf King. Arkai Dawnoro's rise had carved a kingdom from the tundra that the Delanivis could only look upon with hungry eyes. The man was… more of an institution, a force of nature as immutable as the mountains themselves.
Undefeated, unassailable.
But last night, a message changed everything. His son's voice was full of excitement, "Father, he's dead. March west! Take over, this is our chance."
He couldn't believe it at first. That terrifying, magnificent bastard was dead by a mountain?
