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... tic, 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 ragin ...

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