Tyla’s POV
Change never announces itself with trumpets.
It arrives like pressure behind the eyes. Like a bone-deep ache that tells you something fundamental has shifted and your body hasn’t caught up yet.
Three days after the altar transforms, the realm begins to test us.
Not with monsters.
With people.
The first delegation arrives at dawn—farmers from the low plains, hands rough, eyes wary, carrying petitions instead of weapons. They speak of soil that won’t settle, of seeds sprouting too fast and then dying, of dreams where the moon whispers instructions no one understands.
Arthur listens.
Not as an Alpha issuing decrees, but as a man learning the cost of honesty.
We gather them in the old council hall—not the lunar chamber, not the throne room. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere with
