The great hall was completely transformed.
The remnants of the Autumn Festival—the garlands, the wooden lanterns, the lingering scent of honey wine—were stripped away within hours. In their place, a massive, scarred oak table was dragged into the center of the room, covered in heavy parchment maps of the regional territories.
The atmosphere in the room was as cold and sharp as the winter wind howling outside.
Rowan stood at the head of the table, his hands braced on the edges, his Alpha aura radiating a heavy, suffocating tension. Jarek, Tamir, and three other senior border guards stood around him.
Aria didn't stand in the corner. She didn't hide in the shadows like she used to in Silvercrest. She stood directly at Rowan’s right side, wearing her thick wool sweater, the silver crescent
