Down in the courtyard, the rogue camp was a sea of orange flames. Tents collapsed into ash, wooden palisades splintered, and panicked rogue sentries scrambled through the mud, their iron spears clattering against the stone floorboards.
Through the haze of ash and burning pine, Nash fought like a man possessed.
He wore no armor. Thick leather straps bound white bandages tightly across his broad chest and torn back, already stained with fresh red blood where his unhealed lashes had split open. Sweating profusely under the orange glare of the fire, his pale skin looked deathly against the dark timber.
Yet every movement carried a terrifying, ungodly Alpha power.
His dark eyes burned with a brilliant blood-red berserker light, his massive broadsword swinging in a lethal arc that shattered
