Draven’s POV
The last of the carriages had rattled away into the mist, the sound of their wheels swallowed by the dense forest of the Ironclaw territory. The Great Hall, once a theater of light and noise, was now a cavern of dying embers and the sour stench of spilled ale.
We retired to the Alpha’s Sanctum, the ancestral estate that loomed over the village like a stone predator. It was a place of heavy oak, cold hearths, and the lingering scent of my predecessors.
I sat in the high-backed leather chair behind my desk, the weight of the day pressing into my shoulders. Lyra was pacing the rug, her crimson silks rustling like dry leaves, while Camille stood by the window, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight. And then there was Thomas.
He sat huddled in a wingback chair by the fire,
