POV: Tristan
The "one month" decree hadn't even reached its second sunrise before the wolves of Silver Creek began to circle. They didn't come with claws out, not yet. They came with expectations, a suffocating collective pressure that filled the training grounds like a gathering storm.
I stood on the frost-dusted dirt of the central arena, my hands resting on Rena’s shoulders. She was trembling. Not from the cold—I had dressed her in my own thick, charcoal-wool tunic and leather leggings—but from the weight of the eyes watching us. Silas stood on the observation balcony, flanked by two Elders and Nora, whose expression was one of polished, patient cruelty.
"The Council does not have a month to waste on silence, Tristan," Silas called down, his voice carrying that serrated edge of comma
