POV: Alpha Jackson Reynolds
The iron rig groaned under my weight as I landed, the sound of metal screaming against metal echoing through the vast, hollow cavern. Below me, the Well of Whispers—the literal memory of my ancestors—shuddered. The black sludge dripping from the Shaman’s machine was like oil on a mirror, clouding the pristine surface of the North’s history.
The Shadow-Shaman didn't flinch. He stood at the center of the platform, his tattered furs billowing in a wind that shouldn't have existed this deep underground. He raised his bone staff, and the air around him began to warp, turning into a localized vacuum that sucked the light from my glowing fur.
"You fight for a past that is already dying, Reynolds," the Shaman hissed. His voice wasn't coming from his throat; it was vi
