DAVE
The Patriarch's Shame
The mess hall looks like nature and architecture had a violent reconciliation—oak trees growing through the roof, vines claiming walls, flowers blooming from tables that were lumber an hour ago. Four hundred and fifty-seven of my pack members plus fifty Devil's Howl women work to salvage dinner and clear debris while my father stands in the center of it all, immaculate in his campaign suit, surveying damage he did nothing to prevent.
"This destruction is on you," Cyrill announces to no one in particular, though his voice carries that senatorial projection he's been perfecting. "Your revolutionary experiment attracted Unseelie attention. Traditional packs don't face these threats."
The blessing burns beneath my skin, divine energy responding to rage I can bare
