The towering spires of the Council stronghold loomed against the dusk like blackened fingers clawing at the sky. Built of stone older than the territories themselves, the citadel pulsed with magic—wards woven through every crevice, ancient eyes watching from unseen corners. Ashyra hated this place.
It wasn’t just the weight of memory or the layers of bureaucracy that stank like rotting paper. It was what the Council represented: a body that claimed to govern by balance, but always seemed to tip the scales toward whoever whispered the loudest.
Ashyra’s steps echoed down the marbled corridor as she and Stephan were escorted toward the inner archives. She wore a crisp formal coat—silver trim denoting her Beta status—with her pack insignia stitched over her heart. Stephan wore black, as alwa
