Zane~
A charged silence clung to the air like static, the mist curling through the dim chamber, thick and unnatural. The entire place was swallowed by the overwhelming presence that was Jacob Bartholomew—Mist, the Wolf Spirit.
My father—King Anderson Moor—stood frozen, his once-imposing figure seemingly dwarfed by the ancient power crackling in the room. His regal composure wavered, the weight of Jacob's transformation pressing down on him like a storm. His fingers twitched slightly, betraying the battle between awe and authority raging inside him.
Then, suddenly, my father took a sharp breath and straightened his shoulders, forcing his expression into something resembling composure. But it was failing—miserably.
His mouth opened, but for once, words didn't come. He looked between Jacob and me, as if expecting one of us to break the silence, but neither of us did. We let him sit in the reality of what he had just witnessed.
