The grand chamber of the Crescent Moon royal palace smelled of old cedar, polished stone, and barely contained fury. High-backed chairs of dark oak formed a semicircle on the raised dais, each occupied by an elder whose face carried the weight of decades of pack politics. Flickering torchlight danced across their stern expressions, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward the center of the room like accusing fingers.
Isla stood alone in that open space, wrists unbound but feeling heavier than chains. Her borrowed Blackwood tunic hung loose on her frame, the dark fabric still carrying faint traces of Rowan’s mint-and-woodsmoke scent. She kept her chin up, but her pulse hammered so loud she was sure every wolf in the room could hear it.
To her left sat Lady Vance, ramrod straight
