The ballroom looked like someone had taken the night sky, ripped it open, and stitched it into the Silver Ridge Pack’s bones.
Charmed starlight shimmered across the vaulted ceilings, constellations mapped in slow-moving runes carved into the beams overhead. Crystal chandeliers threw shards of silver light across polished marble, each fractured beam catching on the velvet banners hanging along the walls—Caine crest embroidered in storm-thread, a wolf circled by lightning, a reminder of whose territory we were standing in.
The banquet tables had been pushed aside to clear the dance floor, lanterns flickering along the edges, their carved sigils glowing faintly as the wards kept the building’s temper in check. With this many young wolves gathered in one room, “polite society” wasn’t going t
