The air in the council chamber was heavy with incense and silence. Seven Great Elders of the Crescent Moon Pack sat in a circle, their faces drawn, their postures weary from battle. The fire in the central hearth crackled, but it did not warm the tension between them.
Alaric stood at the head of the circle, arms folded across his chest. "We cannot send him away. He's bonded to the land now. To his tree. If we separate him from Aurellin, we may do more harm than good."
Rowan's lined face darkened. "And if we don't, we may lead the Conclave straight to our door again. We've lost enough, Alaric. Two more warriors dead. More wounded. How many more lives are you willing to risk for sentiment?"
"It's not sentiment," Gale interrupted, her voice sharp. "It's instinct. The child has rooted. If y
