Thomas's POV
Wet concrete and fear - that's what this basement smells like. I wheel my chair into the center of the room, watching pack members file in with weapons and worried faces. Sixty years of pack knowledge sitting in this broken body, and I'm supposed to guide them through a ceremony that might be our last.
"Margaret," I call out, my voice carrying more authority than my body should allow. "The ceremonial items?"
She hurries over with a bag full of improvised ritual components. "Thomas, I did what I could. But we don't have half the traditional materials."
"Show me."
She spreads the items on the floor beside my wheelchair. A silver bowl that should be carved from moonstone. Candles that should be made from sacred herbs. Salt that should be blessed by three generations of Luna
