The war council met at dawn.
Nine weeks pregnant. Crown on the table. Diana kicking like she had opinions.
Twenty Alphas. From Blood Moon and our two allied packs. Ashwood and Frostbite. All here because Rafe Ironfang sent a pelt last night.
Not wolf pelt.
Human.
With a message carved into it: Blood Moon burns by full moon.
Three weeks.
Darius stood at the head of the table.
I sat at his right.
Not below. Not behind.
Beside.
“Report,” Darius said.
Beta Corin stepped forward. Baby Corin on his hip. Four weeks old. Grom’s son. My nephew. My guard’s son.
“Ironfang moved,” Corin said. “Two hundred warriors. Plus mercenaries. Plus rogues. He’s promising Kieran’s land to anyone who draws Luna blood.”
The room went quiet.
Twenty Alphas looked at me.
At my bump.
At Diana.
“Let hi
