The Dual Alpha Strike

The southern mouth of Whispering Pass was a smoking wasteland of splintered shields, burning supply wagons, and retreating Bloodpine soldiers. Alpha Silas Drake stood near his command pavilion, his face contorted in frantic, disbelieving rage. He was a tall, gaunt man of forty years, his cruel, hawkish face framed by greasy black hair, clad in ornate gilded plate armor over a vulture-feather mantle. In his hands, he held a cruel,…