The atmosphere in the council chamber was a thick, physical weight, a suffocating mixture of old rivalries and the fresh, metallic scent of fear. The torches flickering along the obsidian walls didn't provide much light; instead, they created long, jagged shadows that danced across the faces of the gathered Alphas like masks. Every pack leader in the room felt the ghost of the previous night’s weakness—the memory of their wolves whimpering in the dark while the moon bled.
Isla moved through the room with the practiced silence of a ghost. Her charcoal maid’s uniform felt like a leaden weight, a constant reminder of her status as the Blackwood’s property. She moved from leader to leader, her eyes fixed on the floor, her hands steady only through sheer, terrified will. She could feel the gaz
