The Northern Fringe,

Boundaries of Shadow-Fang Pack

The night was supposed to belong to the hunters.

Twelve Lycan Hunters - elite mercenaries draped in silver-lined Kevlar - crept through the frozen pines of the North. They were ghosts in the dark, moving toward a small, defenseless settlement of Omegas.

"Easy pickings," the lead hunter whispered, adjusting his thermal scope. "They won’t even shift before we..."

He stopped. The thermal feed suddenly flickering, bleeding out into a blinding, hellish red.

A low, vibrating hum began to shake the marrow of their bones. It wasn't the sound of a wolf. It was the sound of the atmosphere tearing apart.

From the canopy...