The day of the Moon Rite dawned crisp, clear, and impossibly cold.
Inside the Nightfall packhouse, the atmosphere was a thick, buzzing mixture of profound reverence and barely contained aggression. The Northern wolves and their allies moved with a synchronized, lethal grace, preparing the torches and the feasts.
In the western wing, the Southern Delegation remained isolated under heavy guard. They had spent the night shivering under coarse wool blankets, their silk robes useless against the biting drafts of the mountain fortress. Elder Silas had demanded an audience with Rowan three times. Three times, Jarek had politely told him the Alpha was busy.
As the sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks, painting the sky in bruised shades of violet and deep gold, Aria stood before the massive
