Tension simmered in the Stormborn stronghold, a palpable current running beneath the surface of every conversation, every wary glance exchanged in the dim-lit halls. The pack had grown restless, whispers of unease circulating like the scent of an oncoming storm. Suspicion coiled like a serpent around every interaction, tightening its grip as the weight of the prophecy loomed over them.
And at the heart of it stood Ronan, his golden eyes sharp with frustration as he faced his council.
“She’s a Blackthorne, Ronan,” Elder Garrick said, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Their kind cannot be trusted.”
Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Layla is not her father.”
Selene, standing at the far end of the room, let out a soft laugh, the sound dripping with mockery. “No, but she carries his blood. Do
