The forest pulsed with hunger. Shadows stirred between the trees, wolves moving in restless silence as the moon carved silver through the canopy. Every heartbeat in the rogue camp carried the same rhythm impatience, thirst, the gnawing ache of a promise yet unfulfilled.
At the center of it all stood Drevon.
His eyes, sharp as ice, scanned the circle of his pack. The air around him carried the weight of authority, though no crown sat upon his head. He needed none. His power radiated like a storm, bending even the fiercest rogues to obedience.
“She has stepped into the light,” Drevon said, his voice low but cutting through the night like a blade. “The world has seen her. They call her queen.”
A growl rumbled through the crowd. The word queen did not belong to her. Not yet. Not until she
