Dust billowed like an oncoming storm.
Within the swirling dust, countless pairs of ghostly green eyes flickered like will-o'-the-wisps. Low howls rose and fell, like a chorus from the abyss.
Soon, a mass of black-furred werewolves appeared at the edge of Burntwood Village. Their muscles bulged, fangs protruded past their lips, and saliva dripped from their jaws onto the parched ground.
They did not attack at once. Instead, like a well-trained army, they spread out to either side and formed a semicircle.
Amid the werewolves brimming with savagery and killing intent, an especially towering figure slowly stepped to the front.
He was larger and stronger than the other werewolves. Dark gray fur stood upright like steel needles, and several hideous scars ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, ruining what might once have been a dignified face and leaving behind nothing but endless ferocity.
Around his neck hung a terrifying necklace strung with claws and teeth. He radiated a far denser dark aura than Ivar—and a faint, almost imperceptible divine pressure.
He was the Head Wolf—Lalel.
His gaze, like the coldest ice spikes, instantly passed over Deren and the others and fixed mercilessly on Berisha, who held the Scythe of Elune.
"The Scythe of Elune..." Lalel's voice was hoarse and heavy, with the rasp of grinding metal. The rage within it seemed ready to burst forth. "So it really is in your hands. Do you think you can use that to threaten me?"
Under his oppressive stare, Berisha's face went pale. Yet she gripped the sickle's long handle tightly, forced herself to stand firm, and gathered her courage. "Lalel! Do you still recognize me? I am Berisha Starwind!"
Lalel bared his wolfish maw in a terrifying smile. "Starwind? Ah... that pitiful, foolish Priestess of the Moon