It was dusk when the envoys reached Aethon, riding gently across the frost-dusted plains. Lycans moved aside when they saw them, and whispers traveled from lip to ear of almost everyone who caught sight of them. Reports from Blue Rock were expected, but the envoys’ grim expressions were enough to make even seasoned warriors tighten their grips on their spears.
The king’s hall rose ahead—dark stone, tall pillars, and braziers spitting restless flame into the evening wind.
Inside the throne chamber, Alpha King Theron sat forward, elbows on his knees, his sharp hearing fixed on the sound of three horses coming to a halt. He dragged his fingers through his hair, then shifted his attention toward the cell where Luckita had been kept. Silence. A while ago he had heard her mumbling in disgust,
