The moon was low and fat over Black Veil, a bent coin flattened by heat and color. Torches lined the black-stone circle. Wolves fanned in tiers beyond it—war-haggard, blood-scented, hungry for drama and adjudication. Tonight was the line in the earth: Vera would be named Rael’s mate before all… or the pack would tear itself into factions and let the forest decide.
Vera stepped into the light by herself.
No collar. No chains. The old iron had been melted and poured into the altar as slag—a warning, a relic, a promise never to be worn again.
Maelis waited at the circle’s edge with a clay bowl of wine darkened by oath-blood. “Three proofs,” the seer rasped, voice papery as ash. “Endurance. Wisdom. Mercy. Pass, and you wear the crown of teeth. Fail, and the woods take what the moon does no
