The fortress was too quiet.
Even the wind that usually howled through the western ridges seemed to hold its breath.
I stood on the overlook, watching Maddox descend the long path toward the stone amphitheatre where the rogue council waited. He hadn’t said a word all morning, only that “they summoned him,” as if it were routine.
It wasn’t.
The last time the elders called a council without warning, two pack leaders had vanished by nightfall. The Shadowlands didn’t run on votes or courts. It ran on dominance and fear.
I tightened my cloak and followed at a distance.
Rogues lined the upper walkways. No one spoke. No one bowed.
They watched their king like he were already bleeding.
The amphitheatre was ancient, hewn from volcanic rock, stained by time and fire. Thirteen stone seats enci
