Silver and midnight blue.
Every wolf Serena had ever seen glowing during a Sorting or a Trial carried some shade of gold, russet, violet—a color tied to bloodline, to pack, to something the Council could name and file away. The light pouring off her now belonged to neither. It didn't ripple like an aura. It burned like moonlight given weight, ancient and unclaimed, and the entire arena seemed to hold its breath at the sight of it.
Then the carvings woke.
Every symbol etched into the arena's ancient stone—wolves, moons, spirals worn smooth by centuries of weather—flared to life in matching silver, tracing lines of light up the walls and across the risers, as though the arena itself recognized what stood on its floor.
"That's not possible," someone breathed near the front row. "Those car
