The Silvercrest Council felt it as one.
A sharp, resonant pulse tore through the ancient chamber, rattling the wards etched into the stone walls. The runes flared—brief, blinding—before dimming back into a low, ominous glow.
Elder Rowan stiffened in his seat. “That… was not a coincidence.”
Across the crescent table, Elder Maeve’s fingers tightened around her staff. Her eyes, clouded with age and magic, narrowed. “The bond,” she whispered. “It has stirred.”
Rowan corrected her slowly. “Not stirred. Activated.”
A murmur rippled through the Council.
“It’s early,” one of the younger elders said. “Too early. The Alpha has resisted for months.”
Maeve’s lips thinned. “Resistance only delays the inevitable. When a true bond begins to anchor, it does not ask for readiness.”
Rowan rose from
