The courtyard reeked of blood and smoke.
The stones beneath Elaria’s feet were slick, the air too thick with iron to breathe properly, but none of it pressed as heavily on her chest as the words that still echoed across the stronghold:
“She is under my protection. Under my claim.”
The pack had frozen. Every wolf who still stood—warriors with blood-matted fur, mothers clutching their pups, elders gripping their canes—had turned toward Draven as though his words were thunder from the gods.
He had not shouted. He had not roared as he did in battle. His voice had been low, guttural, heavy with the authority of an Alpha whose decrees were not to be questioned. That quietness made it worse. That quietness meant it was not a moment of fury or instinct—it was a vow.
Elaria’s stomach twisted a
