The Court of Wolves had dressed its fear beautifully.
Black marble stretched beneath the old banners, warded ash, dulling its polish so it could not become a mirror. Candles burned in claw-shaped iron stands, thousands of flames catching on jewels, blades, silver clasps, and the polished eyes of noble predators. Every house had come. Morcant crimson. Draven black and moon-gray. Vale pale blue. Thornevale green and gold. Sablethorn, Greymere, Ashcairn, Hollowfell, and a dozen more whose names Sera had learned because ignorance had never saved her from being used.
The Council observers stood near the southern pillars in gray, their faces arranged into solemn accusation.
Viktor Draven waited beneath his banner, silver eyes following every step she took.
Silas stood near the Vale standard,
