Whispers filled the room, some in human tongues, others in dialects never written. Skeldmoor Highland packs sat beside Drenari Bayou witches. Cinderhall werewolves beside Viremount Wild shapeshifters.
Crisis had united them.
Nathaniel raised his voice, not loud, but commanding. “The plague isn’t natural. It’s Ezra Wolfe. We have evidence. Witnesses. He’s moving in shadows with allies scattered across the outer territories. Some are wolves. Some… are worse.”
A murmur rolled through the chamber like dry leaves in wind. ‘Worse’ was a loaded word, a term reserved for the irredeemable. Vampires who fed on children. Shapeshifters who hunted for sport. Witches who used blood magic without consent.
At the far end, Matriarch Ironwood, silver braids trailing down her cloak, leaned forward. “Defi
