The Lycan Council chamber was carved from ancient stone, lit by torches that burned with silver blue flame. The air thrummed with power, old, primal, and unforgiving. Every breath Elara took tasted of iron and moonlight, as if the walls themselves remembered centuries of bloodshed and judgment. The chamber felt alive, humming with ancient magic that pressed against her skin like a warning.
She stepped inside with her chin lifted, Theron at her right, Kaelith drifting behind like a shadow made of silk and danger. Lyria stalked ahead of them, her posture rigid, her fury barely contained, her claws dangerously close to breaking skin. The tension between the four of them was a living thing, sharp enough to cut.
Riven purred. “Welcome to the den of Lycans. Try not to look too delicious. They
