Chapter 65

• The camp buzzed with palpable tension, a living, breathing entity of anticipation and preparation. Every corner of the clearing was alive with the energy of warriors bracing for the inevitable clash. Demion and Ariana moved through the factions like sentinels, their presence a quiet reassurance that all was in order. They nodded at familiar faces and exchanged terse words with leaders, knowing that tonight, more than ever, unity was the key to survival.
• The shifters were gathered near the edge of the camp, their forms rippling with suppressed power. Their leader, Fenrir, stood tall and imposing, his wolfish features hardened with determination. His voice, a low growl that carried through the air, barked orders at his pack, who sharpened their weapons with mechanical precision. Their eyes glinted with the promise of the fight ahead, their animalistic instincts simmering just beneath the surface. They knew the battle that awaited them was one for survival, not just of themselves, but of the entire magical realm. Fenrir’s eyes briefly met Demion’s, and a silent understanding passed between them. They were ready.
• Near the center of the camp, the warlocks were cloistered together in a tight, impenetrable circle. The air around them hummed with the subtle pulse of magic, their incantations rising and falling like waves as they reinforced the protective wards that surrounded the camp. Flickers of light danced around their hands, casting eerie shadows on their faces. Their leader, Marcellus, stood in the middle, his eyes closed in concentration as he orchestrated the magic that would keep them all safe until dawn. Demion watched them for a moment, sensing the strain in their magic. It was powerful, yes, but even magic had its limits.