On the second throne, Erevan Brontes Lychos sat in utter silence. His green eyes stared ahead at the massive doors of the throne room, yet anyone observant enough could tell he wasn't truly looking at anything. His gaze was hollow, vacant… as if his soul were drifting through a void. It wasn't the stare of a prince overseeing a kingdom, but of a man who had suddenly lost his purpose.
His mind churned with grief and uncertainty. Just hours ago, in the hallowed ancestral hall of House Lychos, the life crystal of his father had shattered.
It had not cracked. It had not dimmed even. It had broken into glimmering fragments… a silent scream of death, unmistakable and irreversible. And what that meant was clear. Damon Brontes Lychos, the King of the Werewolves, had died in the other world.
