Damon’s POV
The great hall was filled with the scent of damp earth and cooled smoke. Scorch marks still marred the planks, and the long table bore gouges from blades used to forge plans and grief. I sat at the head, but the space on my left...Aria’s spot...felt heavier than a boulder. Each time someone set a cup nearby, my hands clenched tighter.
Elder Callen spoke first, his dry voice carrying the weight of seasons. With thin, papery skin at his temples and a stubborn jaw, he appeared unhurried. Having endured many winters, he spoke truths that slipped past my guard, not commands.
“Damon,” he said, looking at me with tired eyes, “this truce will not hold on its own. Your wolves look to you. They ask for a Luna to stand beside their Alpha. Stability matters.”
“You’re asking me to put a
