Even though the council chamber's high roof soared with stone and shadow, it had never felt so small. The weight bearing down on it was not from its walls, but rather from the wolves within—every stillness weighing more than a hundred snarls, every gaze piercing.
Elaria stood in the circle still, her words still burning in the air: Then you’ll have to go through me.
They hadn’t dissipated. They hadn’t weakened. They had rooted themselves in the marrow of every wolf who had heard them, like an arrow sunk too deep to be removed.
Across the chamber, Rhovan’s smile curved slow, deliberate. It was not triumph—it was the kind of smile predators gave when prey had walked willingly into their snare.
“Through you,” he repeated, his voice smooth as oil, his dark eyes glinting with cold satisfac
