The great hall of Hollow’s Crossing had never been meant to host so many rulers at once. Its ancient beams groaned softly beneath the combined weight of authority — Alphas, witches, seers, and even a pair of fae envoys whose luminous eyes reflected every flicker of the torchlight.
A map dominated the long table at the hall’s center, its surface marked with silver runes and tiny carved figures denoting territory lines. Bloodstone’s banner hung proudly near the head of the table, beside it the standards of Ash Vale, Iron Ridge, the Crescent Court, and others that had come in secret or silence.
Dustin stood at the head, his hands braced on the table. He had shed the casual warmth that usually followed him; what remained was the Alpha of legend — calm, commanding, every motion deliberate.
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