The departure of the Council Delegates felt like a heavy, suffocating dark cloud lifting from the Nightfall packhouse.
As the heavy oak doors shut behind Elder Silas, the Great Hall didn't just cheer; it erupted into a massive, spontaneous celebration. The Iron Frost had tried to kill them, the avalanche had tried to take their Alpha, and the High Council had tried to steal their Luna.
They had survived all three.
Jarek grabbed a barrel of spiced winter ale from the cellar, popping the cork with his bare hands. Lena began passing out wooden mugs, her face flushed with triumph. Even the elders, who had spent the last two days huddled in fear, were laughing and slapping the warriors on the back.
Rowan stood at the edge of the hall, a mug of ale in his hand, watching his pack. But mostly,
