The chamber smelled of smoke and iron, old stone carrying the weight of centuries. Wolves had gathered in the great hall—elders in their long cloaks, generals with steel at their belts, advisors with parchment and ink smudged fingers.
The Pack Council had been called.
Kael sat on the obsidian throne at the head of the table, his golden eyes glinting in the torchlight. Power radiated from him, raw and unshakable, but beneath his composed exterior, a storm churned. Ariana sat to his right, her expression unreadable, her presence like a wound he couldn’t ignore.
Every pair of eyes in the chamber flicked between them, sensing the tension, the fissures in what should have been an unbreakable bond.
It was weakness—and wolves smelled weakness like blood in water.
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The first to speak was
