TRISTAN'S POV
"If it isn't the twin pups of Frostone."
He was hard to miss. Alpha Darius of Trombone, a wealthy territory in the east that mined everything from gold to diamonds and brainless wolves.
A mountain of a man with shoulders so wide and arms so thick the chair under him could sue for structural abuse if permitted. His territory's sigil, hammer with a bulbous flaming head, was carved into the stone behind his bulbous flaming red haired head, glowing faintly in the torchlight. Fitting.
Big Darius released something he thought was laugher, displaying his rows of cracked, stained teeth with pride. "Heavens! The alphas keep getting younger nowadays."
"And smarter." Tristan added casually, taking the farthest empty seat from the throne. Deckard settled down on his right, which meant the last alpha would be on his left.
