The chamber of the High Council was never quiet. It pulsed with the weight of authority, with eyes observing and judging, of millennia of law enshrined in stone, even when no voices spoke.
That hum wasn't just background this morning; it was a storm brewing beneath the marble floor, slithering through the air like static and whispering across the arched ceiling. Every wolf in attendance felt it. Some relished it. Some feared it. None could ignore it.
The council chamber was a circle, polished obsidian tables ringing the floor where the dais stood, each seat occupied by alphas or their chosen envoys. The banners of their packs hung behind them—colors and crests that represented entire bloodlines, legacies of pride, and in more recent years, grudges.
At the center stood the raised circle
