The hunting knife lay on the frozen river, its polished steel blade gleaming dully under the pale winter sun.
The wind howled through the gorge, whipping Aria’s white fox cloak around her legs. Every single eye on the ice—the Ironridge warriors, the Nightfall guards, Alpha Kaelen, and Rowan—was fixed entirely on her.
The Silvercrest scout whimpered, his face bruised and pressed against the unforgiving ice. He looked up at Aria, his eyes wide with absolute, paralyzing terror. He knew the laws of the wild. Spies caught in rival territory were executed.
Rowan stood a fraction of an inch behind her. He didn't speak. He didn't try to stop her or tell her what to do. His presence was a heavy, solid wall of absolute support. He was letting her rule.
Aria looked at the knife.
In Silvercrest,
