POV: Tristan
The echoes of the rejection were still ringing in the stone rafters of the Great Hall when the heavy iron-shod doors were thrown open with enough force to c***k the masonry. I didn't even have time to pull my hand away from Rena’s waist before the scent hit me. It wasn't the musky, pine-heavy smell of Silver Creek, and it wasn't the rot of the Blood-Fang rogues.
It was ozone. It was burnt copper and expensive leather. It was the smell of a pack that didn't just survive in the mountains—they owned them.
Four figures stepped into the hall, their silhouettes framed by the gray, biting light of the approaching storm. They didn't walk like supplicants or messengers. They walked like kings entering a conquered city.
"Who dares interrupt the Council of the Silver Creek?" Silas ro
