The howl tore.
Not throat. Chest. Kieran stood in the shadow of the first chair white chair that had accepted Black blood and should have killed him and hadn't yet holding the green bicycle t-shirt that smelled of creek water and Elara and Lyra, both, mud and pennies and wolfsbane and snow, and howled until marble cracked under his feet.
White chairs that had flickered with girls hundreds of recessive, stored, thrown away exploded into snow that fell up for a heartbeat, then vanished, leaving Council Hall empty again, except for the broken second chair that was now a wall, except for the third bracelet broken in two on the floor, except for the white feather ordinary and still, except for the Council order that said Come sit first chair, Blackwood. Alone.
Behind him, slow clap. One
