The Alpha's Prickly Porcupine
With a sharp hiss of pressurized air and the grinding of metal, he pulls the headpiece away, the face beneath emerging from the shroud of the mist.
My heart stops. The world tilts, and the blood drains from my face.
It is Glenn Ashwalker. My beta. My trusted childhood friend who taught me how to track through the marshes, how to sharpen my blade, and how to hold my head high when the pack looked down on me. He looks at me, his face devoid of the warmth. I remember, his eyes cold, hollow, and devoid of any recognition. He is the image of a man who has traded his soul for a seat at the table of power. He raises his blade, the tip pointing directly at Daryl’s throat, but his eyes those familiar