The meeting took place at dawn.
A neutral space—flat desert between the edge of the Moon Pack’s territory and the old salt trails once used by the Ixchele. No trees. No cover. Just sun, wind, and silence.
Pill stood at the front of the Moon delegation, wolves flanking him in a tight formation—Roy at his side, Pacer and Suri just behind, Dakota silent and unreadable, eyes sharp beneath the morning light.
Across from them, Xiuhcoatl arrived with only three: Tezozomoctli, Citlali, Tlacaelel.
No banners. No blades. No paint.
Only dust. And the ache of what almost became a war.
No one spoke.
Then Pill stepped forward.
His voice was flat. Even. “You came.”
Xiuhcoatl didn’t posture. “I said I would.”
“We weren’t waiting on your word.”
A pause.
Xiuhcoatl’s eyes stayed steady. “I wasn’t
