The winter-berry vine on Rhiannon’s neck was still tender, a stinging heat that served as a constant reminder of her reclaimation. As she moved through the corridors of the keep, she no longer pulled her hair forward to shield her nape. She let the indigo leaves and defiant red berries sit openly against her skin, a signal to the pack that the "Southern captive" had been buried under Northern ink.
But standing in the Great Hall was different from being on the mountain. Rhiannon didn't want to be a protected statue or a trophy recovered from a raid. She needed to be a part of the pulse of the Nightshade.
She found herself drawn to the lower glass-domed structures that clung to the southern face of the peak- the greenhouses. These were the lungs of the pack, where the pack struggled to
