The inner court glowed gold with morning light. It filtered through tall windows and danced over old banners, each one shifting like a memory. The air carried the scent of incense and something heavier—expectation. This was the place where traditions were born and broken, where power passed from hand to hand with ceremony and silence.
The room had seen Alphas crowned and cast down. But never this.
Aria entered quietly.
No crown. No armor. Just a healer’s linen dress, her hair braided back, her scars uncovered. She walked beside Xander, who wore the mantle of Alpha. Their daughter slept against his shoulder, a small weight that meant more than any title.
Mira and Rowan followed, changed in ways only time and battle can shape. And Lysa stood at the back—silent, steady. Once an enemy. Now
