Beneath the towering fangs of stone that gave Fangridge its name, the air trembled with tension.
Livius stood atop a jagged platform carved straight from the mountain's bones, the wind whipping his dark mane like a beast's tail. His chest rose and fell with barely leashed fury, bare feet planted firm on bloodstained stone. Around him stood the elite warriors of Fangridge—towering giants with shoulders as wide as boulders, their skin tattooed with ancient war symbols, their arms thick with muscle and dried blood.
And yet… they looked away.
Their eyes, eyes that had once stared down mammoths and monsters, refused to meet Livius's.
"You call yourselves demigods," he growled, voice low, dangerous. "The strongest of Fangridge. You wear the bones of your kills and call yourselves conquerors. But your brothers were slaughtered like prey—and you come to me with nothing?"
No one spoke.
Livius's eyes flared like fire caught in obsidian.
"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!"
