The chamber was built to make people feel small.
High stone walls rose to a vaulted ceiling carved with wolves in mid-hunt, their eyes painted black and watchful. A long table of dark oak dominated the center, flanked by twelve elders in high-backed chairs. At the head sat Alpha Elias Blackwood—silver-streaked hair pulled back, face carved from granite, eyes the color of storm clouds before lightning.
To his right sat Soran and Cairo. No Rowan. No one outside the immediate family knew he was still locked in the vault beneath the mansion, silver chains biting into his skin, the full moon only hours away. The official story was that Rowan was “indisposed.” No further explanation had been offered.
In the open floor stood Isla.
She wore the plain gray servant dress they’d given her—no jewe
