Fergus slipped out of the house, the bag containing Cullen's bones slung casually over his shoulder. He moved with the nonchalance of a seasoned thief with his senses heightened by the adrenaline of his secret mission.
He couldn't risk being caught with the bag. If he was caught, his entire mission would be jeopardized.
As he ventured deeper into the pack's territory, the devastation wrought by the recent attack became painfully evident. Burnt houses, like skeletal remains, stood as grim testaments to the battle. Haggard-looking people toiled amidst the wreckage, salvaging what little they could.
Homeless families huddled together with their faces etched with despair. A dark satisfaction bloomed in Fergus' chest. The havoc unleashed by his kind was a prelude to the ultimate victory which filled him with a morbid sense of pleasure.
There was nothing as sweet as sniffing despair in the air. It was intoxicating, strong, and delicious.