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The journey to the Harvey pack, nestled atop the southern mountains, was one that Alpha Enzo had both dreaded and anticipated. The mountain road was a winding stretch of rugged paths, twisting and turning as though nature itself had designed it to deter the faint of heart. Towering pine trees lined either side of the narrow trail, their branches swaying in the cold breeze that swept down from the peaks. Jagged cliffs bordered portions of the path, revealing sweeping views of the valley below, shrouded in mist. The air was thin, crisp, and carried with it the scent of the earth, pine, and the untamed wilderness.

Despite the ominous landscape and the stories of bandits who roamed the area, Enzo’s journey had been remarkably smooth. No ambushes, no sudden attacks, no unexpected roadblocks. For a place known for its treachery, the peace was unsettling, almost as though the mountain itself had chosen to remain silent that day.

As they neared the peak, the sprawling structure of the Harvey