*Silver Fang Stronghold — War Room, Night*
The war room was built of black stone, lit only by braziers.
A long oak table, scarred and darkened by centuries, stretched across the chamber. Maps of the wolf lands covered it, their edges curled and stiff with age, claw marks slashed through borders where wars had once raged.
Greenwood’s crest was circled in blood-red ink, Ryder’s Starblood territory carved with deep gouges from the Alpha’s own claws.
The Alpha of Silver Fang stood over it, broad-shouldered, his dark hair tied back, golden eyes glinting. His presence filled the chamber like a predator fills a den.
“Too long,” he muttered, dragging one claw across the parchment map until it tore. His gaze fixed on Greenwood’s borders, his upper lip curling. “The High Alpha thinks silence
