The sky bled gold across the mountains.
Elara stood on the crystal dais at the summit of Silvermoon's central courtyard, the morning sun glinting off her silver armband. Around her, thousands of wolves gathered—fur-lined cloaks, armor gleaming, hands entwined across caste lines once carved in blood.
Today was not a coronation.
It was a beginning.
Kael stepped beside her. No crown. No blade. Just the wolfwood ring still snug on his finger and the crescent-shaped cuff they now wore as a symbol of choice, not rank.
A hush fell over the courtyard.
The high priestess stepped forward, voice carrying like wind: “Do you, Elara Lysandra Valen-Silvermoon, swear your loyalty not to throne or legacy—but to the people, all scents equal, all voices heard?"
“I do."
“Do you, Kael Thorne of the Fro
