Tristan
The evening banquet for the Southern delegates was an exercise in agony. The Great Hall was draped in the silver and blue banners of our pack, the air thick with the smell of roasted stag and heavy wine. To anyone else, it was a display of peak Silver Creek power. To me, it was a funeral for my autonomy.
I sat at the high table, flanked by my father and Nora. Every time Nora leaned in to whisper something about the guests, her perfume—that sharp, overwhelming lily—felt like a physical assault on my senses. My wolf was pacing so violently I feared I might shift right at the table.
Not her, Vane growled, a low vibration in my skull that made my ears ring. Where is the silver? Where is the rain?
"You haven't touched your wine, Tristan," Nora said, her voice loud enough to carry t
