POV Alpha Alaric
The command tent smelled of ozone, expensive bourbon, and the metallic tang of suppressed rage. I stood over the holomap, my fingers tracing the jagged lines of the Whispering Valley. For ninety years, my family had been the "Kings in Exile," ruling from a throne of glass while the true seat of power sat rotting in the mists.
My grandfather, Beowulf, had made one mistake: he had let a single Walker live. He had been a poet at heart, seduced by the drama of the kill, but he had lacked the surgical precision required to end a bloodline. I would not repeat his sentimentality.
"The surge was confirmed three hours ago, Alpha," Silas, my Lead Tech-Scout, reported. He didn't look at me; no one looked at me when the 'Pulse' was active. "The Moonstone Core has been re-keyed. The
