"Vargan!" Azel exclaimed the moment he stepped into the sick house.
The place smelled of blood and wet fur.
The beds were lined with wounded werewolves, and every one of them looked wrecked… gashes, burns, and shredded limbs.
But none looked as bad as the former leader himself.
Vargan was barely recognizable.
One arm was gone, his teeth shattered, and a deep gouge tore through his left eye.
The bandages were already soaked red, and his once-proud form trembled weakly on the bed.
"M-my… my lord…" Vargan wheezed, trying to lift himself.
His remaining hand reached toward Azel. "The forest… it's evil."
"Evil?" Azel repeated, moving closer.
He glanced at another wounded werewolf sitting on a nearby bed. "What does he mean by that?"
The soldier looked up, his yellow eyes dull with exhaustion.
"My lord… what Vargan means is that the forest has changed. It's too strong now… filled with monsters that can kill us easily."
