Tristan
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of a long, brutal winter. I stood at the head of the training grounds, my arms crossed over my chest, watching the younger wolves run their drills. My father was at my side, his presence a heavy, silent pressure.
"The delegates left this morning," Deza said, his voice level but carrying an edge of steel. "They left with the impression that my son is more interested in the shadows of the manor than the light of his own future. I had to spend three hours smoothing over the 'misunderstanding' of your exit last night."
"I was unwell," I said, my voice flat. I kept my eyes on the sparring wolves, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the silver rim in my eyes. I had learned to squint, to keep my gaze low,
