The council chamber was aflame with noise.
Wolves pressed thickly through the long hall, the air a-swirl with their heat and breath. Torches choked in their sconces, smoke rolling to the vaulted ceiling. The fire pit at the chamber’s center roared too hot, flinging sparks into the rafters, making the room seem less like a council hall and more a forge.
The great table groaned under maps and weapons, the inlay of bones—carved from old wolves— gouged and stained by generations of claws. Tonight, new marks had been scored, new lines of frustration and rage.
It was ceaseless.
Voices rose to shout they should march proudly into the Conclave and spit Marcus’s insult back into his face. Others screamed it was a trap, that Marcus would twist the packs against them, would use Vera as the proo
