THE MAIN PACK HOUSE, 8:17 pm.
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By nightfall, the Moonblade compound had shifted from the cold bite of training to the glow of the pack house. The great hall smelled of roasted venison and spiced root vegetables, hearthfires casting gold over the long tables. Conversation rolled in waves, low laughter, the clink of mugs, the shuffle of chairs as wolves settled shoulder to shoulder. Corbin sat at the head table, Rorik to his right, Amarien to his left, the rest of the leadership strung along like a line of watchtowers. Mates beside them, voices mixing in the easy rhythm of old alliances. The younger wolves crowded the centre tables, still flushed from the pit, hair damp from quick showers, and some with fresh bandages hidden under sleeves. Killian sat between Kristian and Omari, smirking
