The heavy, iron-reinforced doors of the Great Hall didn't just open; they surrendered. They swung wide with a thunderous groan, admitting a violent gust of late-autumn wind that sent the tapestries into a frantic dance.
Along with the cold came a scent that was unmistakable and suffocating, a blend of high-end French perfume, expensive leather, and the faint, sickly-sweet undertone of decay, the scent of a woman who wore the skins of dead things to feel alive.
Selene had returned.
She stepped into the hall like she was reclaiming a kingdom. Draped in a floor-length cloak of white fox fur that shimmered like fresh snow, she looked every bit the High Matriarch she clawed her way to become. Her eyes, painted in sharp, kohl-rimmed lines, were predatory—predating even the wolves she command
