The invitation came sealed in black wax and delivered by one of Bastián’s men like it was a weapon, not a paper.
I found out about the gathering in the middle of the afternoon, just after the pack had finished its route reports and the estate had started its slow shift into evening movement. The note was a brief request for the Sangre Antigua assembly, formal attendance was required, bloodline representatives were to be present, and traditional dress was mandatory.
That last line told me enough.
There was nothing about a Sangre Antigua gathering that was ever casual. From the clothing to the smiles and the way wolves gauge one another while pretending they were there to honor history.
Bastián handed me the notice without an expression. “Tonight,” he said.
I read it twice. “Do you spri
