Ayla
They dressed me in black.
It was tradition not just for the vote. I stood before the mirror in the small chamber off the viewing stands, watching my reflection blink back like a stranger. The gown was tailored to perfection elegant, sleek, high-necked. The kind of beauty that made silence feel like power. The fabric drank in the light like sorrow itself. My hair had been twisted up and pinned with onyx combs, each one digging into my scalp like a crown I hadn’t earned.
I looked regal. Striking. But I didn’t look alive.
The woman in the glass could’ve been carved from ash. Hollowed. Numb. I didn’t weep for myself. I wept, silently and without tears, for what had already been taken. For Rowan. For the scattered remnants of my pack. For the fire still burning somewhere deep in my che
