DANTE
Blood has its own music.
The thought comes unbidden as I watch dawn paint the combat circle in shades of copper and shadow. Each stone thrums with centuries of violence, harmonizing with promises yet to be kept. Today they'll drink deep again, and part of me wonders if ancient magic ever grows tired of the same old song—dominance, challenge, death.
Behind me, the compound stirs to life. Eight hundred and eighty-five soldiers who've held this territory through plague and politics, through human wars that spilled into our borders, through every ambitious Alpha who thought Portland meant easy prey. They move with purpose now, understanding that today's violence shapes tomorrow's peace.
Or tomorrow's war.
"The Council's here." Mike materializes at my shoulder, forest fae grace marri
