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Chapter 11 - Whispers of the Northern Wastes

The coronation of Queen Lyra and King Caspian marked a new era for the Blackstone Kingdom, but absolute peace is a fragile thing. Deep in the freezing expanse of the Northern Wastes, far beyond the melted city gates, ancient pack lords watched the shifting balance of power with narrowed eyes. For fifteen years, they had operated under the tyrannical laws of the usurper Orson, carving out illegal territories and indulging in blood-sport markets.

Standing on a snow-dusted cliff overlooking the frozen ravines, Lord Malric—the fierce alpha of the Iron-Fang pack—sharpened a jagged bone knife against a whetstone. He was a mountain of a man with a thick gray beard and a reputation for ruthless expansion.

"They say the true king has returned," a scarred scout growled, stepping up behind Malric. "And that a human woman sits beside him on the obsidian throne, wielding the magic of the core."

Malric let out a harsh, rasping laugh. "A human? A fragile, soft-fleshed pet wearing a crown she doesn't understand. Caspian may have survived the southern pits, but fifteen years in chains leaves even a god weak. The northern packs do not bow to a king who shares his throne with livestock."

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"What are our orders?" the scout asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"We ride south," Malric snarled, sheathing his blade. "We test the strength of this new court. If Caspian is truly back to his old self, he will meet us on the border. If he is hollow, we will tear his queen to pieces and take the Blackstone throne for ourselves."

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